“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.”
She marched back to her car by way of the gravel path around the side of the home. Her chin wavered, but she wouldn’t give in to her emotions. Not yet.
First, she had to find out why Haywood Wheatland would make such a suggestion. Phelma Jo had to have put him up to it. He hadn’t been in town long enough to know anything about the museum operation.
Then she was going to spend as much time as necessary going over all the books and the bank statements herself.
“I have reviewed the material you brought me,” Judge Pepperidge intoned slowly, never taking his eyes off the sheaf of papers he held. Even with his tie loose and the top button of his dress shirt undone, the white streaks at his temples in sharp contrast to his dark hair, aquiline nose, and chiseled cheeks made him look authoritative and important.
Chase stood at attention in front of the judge’s massive desk, designed to clearly separate His Honor from the great unwashed, and lawyers. Chase didn’t dare unbend even the slightest. Buck privates in the army facing a wrathful drill sergeant couldn’t be more uncomfortable than Chase Norton at that moment. The air-conditioning set at Arctic didn’t cool the sweat running down his back.
Tuesday had come and gone before he got this appointment on Wednesday during the lunch hour. He wasn’t going to blow it with the slightest unbending that might be interpreted as disrespect.
“You realize that seeking an injunction against a city work order should have come from the DA or at least a City Council member.” The judge peered over the top of his reading glasses, making eye contact with Chase for the first time since he’d been summoned to explain himself.
“Begging your pardon, Your Honor, City Ordinance SFCO8795678, November 12, 1932, clearly states that any concerned citizen may seek an injunction against an action they deem harmful or dangerous to their neighborhood,” Chase recited.
“I see you’ve done your homework, Sergeant Norton.” The judge rattled the papers as he sat back in his big comfortable chair and swiveled a bit. “We could use more people like you on the force.”