“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?”
“Because deep in your heart you always knew we were real.”
The scotch in Chase’s belly threatened to come up. It didn’t taste nearly as good the second time around.
“Oh, stop trying to make sense out of Pixies and reality. You two need to figure out how to fix something. Neither one of you can do it alone,” Mabel reminded them.
“Well, his fat fingers sure can’t fit inside,” Chicory sneered.
“How can a Pixie know anything about mechanics?” Chase returned.
“Like I said, neither one of you can do it alone. Now make your peace and get to work. You don’t have all night,” Mabel insisted. “And, Chicory, you’ll need gloves of some sort, there’s metal involved.”
“Looks like copper, not iron. I’ll be okay,” he replied.
“I have a feeling it’s going to take all night and then some.” Chase eyed the Pixie skeptically. “I’m not even sure he’s really here.”
“Oh, yeah?” Chicory flew up and dive-bombed, taking a nip at the tip of Chase’s nose as he passed.
“Ouch! You bit me!” Chase rubbed the stinging bump.
“You bet I did. And you taste like sour sweat and greasy hamburgers. Convinced I’m real yet?”
“Maybe.”
“So get to work. Sun comes up before six. You haven’t a lot of time. I’m going to bed.” Mabel stomped away, letting the swinging door swish back and forth in her wake.
Dusty wandered through the kitchen and dining room two hours before her usual rising time. Dawn crept around the edges of the trees on the east side of the house.
She hummed a sprightly little tune full of chimes and dancing notes.
Dum dee dee do dum dum.
She skipped to the tune, trying out a few remembered steps from her childhood ballet classes.
Despite the impending doom of The Ten Acre Wood and the ruination of her Masque Ball fund-raiser, she couldn’t help smiling in remembrance of Hay’s kisses last night. So different, more interesting, and much more exciting than Joe’s lackluster attempts to woo her.
The tune hit a sour note in her head. Samuel Johnson-Butler, PhD. had decided to cancel the museum’s grant. No appeal. He was the absolute dictator of the committee.
Three days to come up with a drastic solution. If only Mrs. Shiregrove had come with him, she could have offered possibilities and alternatives, like matching funds.
Matching funds.
Mrs. Shiregrove lived on a five-acre estate filled with wonderfully landscaped gardens between the house and the horse pastures. Gardens that would look magical with Pixie lights strung around the hedges, with the dense perfume of roses spreading through the dry air.
Dusty reached for the phone and caught a glimpse of the red digital numerals on the stove. “Damn, it’s only five thirty. She won’t be up.”
“Who won’t be up?” Thistle asked on a yawn. Her footsteps sounded heavy and hesitant on the back stairs. She rubbed the back of her head and winced at something tender.
“Mrs. Shiregrove. What are you doing up so early? What hurts?” She reached to examine the back of her friend’s head.
Thistle shied away. “That hurts!”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” She gazed into the distance, looking as if she searched her memory, or the trees in the backyard for the source. “I couldn’t sleep.” Thistle kept her head down, her thick black tresses flowing forward to hide her face.