Jealousy raged in Chase’s chest, as if a vacuum sucked all the air out of him and left the heavy machine pressing against his rib cage.
“You’re why I’m suddenly obsessed with Dusty. I always thought she’d be there waiting for me when she was ready to notice me. Now I’m not so sure.”
Chase dropped so heavily into his swivel chair it spun around to face the whiteboard covered in notes and profiles of recent unsolved crimes. The only thing that caught his attention was a checklist of places he’d looked at to determine ownership of Pixel Industries, Ltd.
In the hasty scrawl he liked to call handwriting, the word Pixel looked like a misspelling of Pixie.
A vivid image of Haywood Wheatland calling a pink bug “sweetheart” and “beloved” flashed before his mind’s eye.
Haywood Wheatland worked for Phelma Jo.
Phelma Jo had a reputation for underhanded, borderline illegal real estate transactions. Chase had never dug up evidence of blackmail when people sold prime properties to her at about half market value and hightailed it out of town. Lack of evidence didn’t mean she was innocent. Lack of evidence didn’t remove suspicion.
He logged on to the Internet and started searching some databases. He had three days to get a court order to stop the logging. He hoped it was enough time.
Phelma Jo tapped her foot, waiting for Haywood Wheatland to return from the courthouse. He’d dashed back there seconds after Ms. Boland left with her donation check. Something about following up with the mayor…?
Damn, the man couldn’t sit still. He flitted about with an intense urgency that left Phelma Jo unsettled and irritated.
Why couldn’t she control him? She’d already divorced two men who slipped through her net of seduction, lies, and manipulation designed to keep them firmly under her thumb. If Hay continued on this course of independence, she’d have to fire him.
Never again would she allow any man to hurt her like her mother’s boyfriend had. He was bigger and stronger than Phelma Jo. She was just a child. Automatic obedience was expected of her. Disobedience was met with punishment: either the back of her mother’s hand across her face, or the boyfriend touching her in ways no adult man should touch a child.
The day the school counselor had called the police and children’s services, she’d vowed that never again would any man of her acquaintance do anything she did not dictate.
“Well?” she asked when Haywood finally returned during the lunch hour. He happily whistled a tune she almost remembered.
Damn. Now she’d have an earworm of that tune until she figured out where she’d heard it before.
Dum dee dee do dum dum.
“Well what?” he returned, acting surprised she had questions about the morning’s proceedings.
“What happened at the City Council meeting?” She hadn’t dared show up.
“The mayor dismissed the challenge to his authority to sign work orders.”
“Sit down and stop pacing. I’m getting whiplash trying to follow you.”
He perched on the edge of a chair, ready to bounce up again as soon as he could. “Dick and Dusty had prepared statements. Thistle said something meaningless. That policeman was hanging around. I need to spend more time with Dusty to counter his influence.” He looked entirely too happy.
“You are supposed to break Dusty’s heart, not fall in love with her.” Phelma Jo narrowed her focus, watching for any telltale signs that her new employee defied her.
“The only way for me to get to Thistle is through Dusty,” he said nonchalantly while surreptitiously checking his watch. His glance barely lingered on the timepiece long enough to register the numbers on the display. He bounced up and began circling the room like a demented collie trying to herd her into the center.
“As long as we get what I want.”
“You want to run for mayor in November. Don’t worry. I’ll put you in a favorable position.”
“I hired you because you guaranteed me I’d win the election.”
“I guaranteed I’d remove your primary opposition, Dick and Dusty Carrick. If they campaign against you, you don’t have a chance. Don’t worry, they won’t be able to say a word against you come November.”
“And what do you get out of it?”
“The demise of my enemies. Same as you.”
Twenty-three
DUSTY STARED AT HER computer screen until her vision blurred and doubled. Without really thinking about it, she closed her eyes and dropped her head onto her crossed arms.
Suddenly she was ten years old again and bouncing around the backyard, running from rose to dahlia to lavender, smelling deeply of their fresh fragrance. Her legs stretched and her feet landed lightly. She pushed herself harder, taking longer strides, twirling with joy. She panted and a stitch grabbed her side. She didn’t care.
She danced outside for the glory of dancing again.
The doctors had told her and Mom that the cancer was in remission. With care, she could grow up normal. No reason now to sit quietly while everyone at school played and ran and danced. Dick didn’t need to hang around her all the time protecting and taking care of her as if he was a nurse or something. She’d had enough of nurses and uniformed aides wearing face masks during the months and months of chemo.
A flurry of movement among the herbs around the big old maple tree alerted her that she was no longer alone.
“Thistle?” she called into the trees, pausing to catch her breath. “Thistle, where are you?”
Dusty took one cautious step toward the shadows cast by the maple’s interlaced branches. A stray shaft of sunlight shone brightly like an amethyst glinting in the shop window down on Main Street. Mom had promised her a gem like that when she was old enough. Whenever that was. Dusty wanted it now because it reminded her of the tiny Pixie who flitted in through the hole in the screen of her bedroom window, who sat with her and told her all the neighborhood gossip when she was too exhausted to read, or play computer games, or… move.
Dusty followed the flicker of purple-and-green motion. She walked slowly, careful not to trip on the garden hose Dick had left out, or sudden dips in the lawn. Mom would kill her if she fell and got bruised or scraped again. Or if she stained her new skirt. Why did moms always make you dress up to go to the doctor?
“Thistle?” Dusty called again. She’d lost track of the purple flashes as clouds covered the weak sunshine.
Raindrops evaporated from the leaves as the sun peaked out again, making the air shimmer.
Dusty tasted the word. Evaporated. She liked the sound of it. Vapor, at the center. Mysterious mists. Hints of menace. But Thistle would protect her.
At last she found a frond of a silver fern bouncing as happily as she was.
A bright giggle enticed Dusty to take a few more steps among the silvery plants of Mom’s special garden. She watched very carefully to make sure she avoided the muddy spots. The giggle came again, a little closer.
“Oh, no, you don’t, Thistle. I know your tricks. I’m not getting muddy today.”
“Spoilsport.” Thistle landed on Dusty’s shoulder. “You went away in the car this morning. You never leave the house unless it’s something special. And now you are dancing in the backyard. What’s up?”
“Do you remember that I’ve been really, really sick?” Thistle forgot a lot of things and Dusty had to remind her often.
Thistle frowned and cocked her head a moment. Then she flashed a smile and ruffled her wings. “Of course I remember. I’m not like other Pixies who forget a friend. I’ve stayed by you the whole time, keeping you company.”
“The cancer is gone. The bone marrow transplant from Dick worked. It’s like a miracle. I can run and dance and play as much as I want.” Dusty spread her arms and spun in place. She loved the way the trees seemed to twist with her. The world titled and looked different. Awesome.