Chicory Up: The Pixie Chronicles (39 page)

Strangely, Hope did.

“Juliet overheard by accident. She is the one person in this whole world who can really and truly help you. So sit down and spill the rest of it,” Chicory coaxed.

Mouth agape in wonder, Hope sat. Juliet joined her on the other side of the table. “I only heard the last bit, but I suspect that what hurt most was not the lies, but the people who believed the lies,” she said. Her eyes focused on the candle flame that Hope had lit earlier. “Can you imagine how I felt when a gossipy old lady in my church said it was my fault that Desdemona got leukemia and almost died?”

“That’s just stupid,” Hope spat.

“You know that and I know that, but there were others who didn’t want to believe that God could hurt me and my family by giving my child cancer. For no reason. So they had to blame a human. I’m Desdemona’s mother and therefore it had to be my fault, not God’s. God did it as punishment for something.”

“What… what did you do?”

“We held our heads high, ignored the gossips, and got on with our lives, doing everything humanly possible to get Desdemona the treatment she needed. Did you know that Benedict, your father, gave his bone marrow to restart her immune system after the chemo? He, as much as anyone, or the drugs saved her life. That’s when he decided to go into medicine.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“So who believed the lies and treated you so badly you felt like you had to run away from the family and friends who love you most?”

“Mike. Mom’s husband.”

Interesting that she didn’t call the man her stepfather, like she should. Chicory began to see the family structure moving into place to push her aside. Did her mother know?

“What did he say?”

“He told me to get out. He said I was just trash like my mother had been. He wasn’t going to have a whore for a daughter.”

“I think I need to call your mother,” Juliet said.

“No, please. He’ll just make things worse.”

“The truth never made anything worse.

“Mike won’t believe you any more than he did me. And Mom listens to him now. She never, ever listens to me since he moved in.”

“We have to try, Hope. If she shuns you because of a lie, then she’s not worthy of being your mother. I think Benedict would have a good case to sue for sole custody of you.”

“He won’t want me either. He’s getting married soon and he’ll only have time for Thistle.” Hope slumped, nearly dissolving into herself.

“Don’t bet on that. I know my son. And I’ve come to know Thistle. They will welcome you, Benedict already
loves you. Now go upstairs and wash your face. I’m guessing it will just be the two of us for dinner. But that’s actually a good thing. I need a co-conspirator and you are the best candidate. And take Chicory up with you. I don’t need him throwing flour all over the kitchen while I make dumplings.”

“I never!”

“You do, too. Now go with Hope.” She leaned down close and whispered, “Watch her. And take care of her.”

Chicory nodded and flew up to Hope’s shoulder. “I need a big favor, Hope.”

“Like I’m in a position to help a Pixie.”

D
ICK STARED IN DISMAY AT THE FLAMES shooting high into the twilit sky. Smoke billowed outward in the still air.

His high school burned. The front portico shot fire and smoke out of broken windows.

This was the place where he’d taken his first biology classes and fallen in love with science. Where he’d met a string of girls, made friends, earned some trophies. The big State Championship Science Fair plaque was his.

Generations of townsfolk had attended school here. The original school from 1850 was gone; the 1922 building now housed the middle school. This one dated back only to the late 1950s, but all the accumulated trophies and memorabilia since the early days were collected here—except for the oldest stuff that Dusty had confiscated for her museum.

Gone. So much of the town’s past was gone. He ached from his gut outward. He’d cherished his high school memories where he’d gloried in accolades in sports and academic awards, loved the girls, made and cemented lifetime friendships.

Fathered a daughter.

A blast of heat and noise lit the scene with the garish orange blaze of a greedy fire and new fuel. The glare and the heat drove him back. He shielded his eyes with his arm. Sweat poured down his face and back. Still he was grateful for the heavy protection of coat, helmet, pants, and boots.

He retreated behind the EMT truck coughing out smoke. Returning to reality, and adult responsibilities.

In the near distance, he heard Chase shouting directions to control traffic around the busy intersection. Firefighters shouted for more water pressure.

A comrade stumbled toward him, supporting a limp figure. “Here’s our witness, he called in the alarm,” Digger Ledbetter said around his own coughing spate. Dick almost didn’t recognize him without his camera, notebook, and press pass.

Dick shoved an oxygen mask over the witness’ face.

“Help me move him over to the sidewalk,” Dick shouted over the noise that always accompanied a fire. “Whatever’s burning is too hot. This oxygen tank will explode.”

Dick put his shoulder under the man’s arm and guided him farther away. Digger grabbed the portable oxygen tank and followed him.

“Move the truck back, too!” Dick yelled. All the while he kept a mask over the face of the witness.

“You got here fast from the hospital,” Dusty said, appearing out of nowhere. Of course she was here. Chase was here. Dusty hadn’t come home last night. They’d been together when Dick called in a panic about Hope.

Hope. Damn, but he hoped she’d be okay alone until Mom got home.

“You know this guy?” Dick asked, checking his patient’s pulse and the dilation of his pupils.

“Dick, have you met our new neighbor Ian McEwen? He bought the old Goddard place. His aunt is Mabel Gardiner,” Dusty said over the noise and rush of the fire scene.

“Pleased to meet you again. Haven’t seen you since that summer we played Little League,” Dick said casually, barely taking his attention away from the man’s breathing pattern and pulse.

Ian acknowledged him with a nod, still sucking in oxygen through the mask.

“I took him to visit Mabel earlier this afternoon,” Dusty continued. “I left him there,” she consulted her watch, “a little over an hour ago. He said he’d walk back here to get his truck which was parked in the back of the gym.” She couldn’t take her eyes away from the horror of the fire.

Another siren approached from uphill. The fire must be
really intense for the chief to call in backup from the county station up by the community college.

“You need to go home, Dusty,” Dick said, pointing to the rushing firefighters dragging huge hoses, manipulating them to get the best arc of water to fall on the blaze. He knew from experience how their muscles had begun to ache about now. They’d grow even more tired before this was over. “You’ll be in the way.”

“I’m not running away, Dick. I need to know if the static parade is doomed. The entire All Hallows Festival might fall to a similar fate.” She choked back tears.

Quite a different woman from the baby sister who hid from reality in the basement of her museum as recently as three months ago.

Ian McEwen’s breathing became more regular and his pulse settled down, though it was still rather rapid. Adrenaline would do that. “You shouldn’t have tried to stamp out the fire,” Dick said noting the char marks on his work boots. He held the oxygen mask in place so Ian couldn’t respond. “That’s a good way to get hurt. Also a good way to get accused of setting the fire.” His words came out angry, much more so than the situation called for.

He looked away from his patient and wished he hadn’t. Firefighters jumped and jerked about, limbs flailing, backlit shadows against the tendrils of fire reaching to entangle them.

He conjured images from Dante’s
Inferno
. Or Mussorgsky’s
A Night on Bald Mountain
.

Police Chief Beaumain elbowed his way through the gathering crowd of looky-loos that Chase barely kept at bay. He aimed for Dick and the witness.

“What’d you see?” he barked as soon as he’d finished the formalities of name, address, and phone number. And McEwen’s connection to Mabel.

Ian jerked the mask away from Dick who was trying to replace it. “I saw the silhouette of a man running away from the front entrance. He windmilled his arms and stumbled like he was drunk or had MS or something. Then I smelled the smoke.”

Dusty caught Dick’s gaze with her own. She mouthed
something that might have been “Snapdragon.” He couldn’t be sure. Didn’t want to discuss the prime suspect in public. Still, he had to know.

“Jerky like Saint Vitus’ Dance?”

“What’s that?” Chief Beaumain asked.

Ian shrugged. “Never heard of that one. Is it something new the kids are doing?” His voice sounded a bit wheezy.

“Never mind.” Dick shoved the oxygen mask back over his face. He nodded to Dusty.

“It’s getting dark. We’ll never find him until sunrise,” she said quietly.

“Find who?” Beaumain asked, alert and wary.

“Haywood Wheatland,” Dick said.
Otherwise known as Snapdragon.
“I’ve heard rumors that he caught ergot poisoning while he was incarcerated. The jerky lack of muscle control is indicative of the toxin. Insanity follows close behind.”

“Ergot? Isn’t that medieval? You get it from moldy rye bread?” Ian asked. “How could that happen in jail? The food is inspected…”

“Tight budgets. Cooks save money by serving bread that has sat around too long.” Beaumain shrugged in dismissal. “Scrape off most of the green and who’s to challenge them?”

“Ergot affects barley and some wheat as well as rye,” Dusty added. “It shows up usually during a famine or after floods. The county jail is notoriously damp.”

“Serving tainted food is not right,” Ian protested.

“It’s reality,” Dick retorted. “Let’s get you in an ambulance.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you aren’t. Smoke inhalation is sneaky. I want you checked out.” Dick pulled Ian up and shoved him toward the waiting ambulance half a block away. He should have summoned a gurney but didn’t think it could get through the crowd.

“Did you smell an accelerant?” Beaumain called after them.

“Gasoline.” Ian turned and tried to go back. “Maybe more like kerosene, not as sharp or acidic as gas.”

Dick kept a firm grip on the man’s arm.

An out-of-control Snapdragon. Thistle lost in The Ten Acre Wood. Hope suffering from abandonment issues. He needed this night to be over with so he could settle his problems and get life back to normal, with Thistle and, maybe, his daughter.

“This has got to end. We take care of the fire-fascinated vandal tomorrow at dawn.”

“Agreed,” Dusty and Chase said together.

Chicory inspected the saucers with spices and herbs heaped in the center of each. Good thing Juliet used fresh in all her cooking. He and Hope had only gone as far as the pantry to find what he needed.

They’d arranged the saucers in a circle in the clear space between Dick’s bed and the closet. A squat candle sat in the middle of each container, surrounded by a full mix of the dry ingredients. Once all was in place, he’d sent Hope to bed, and made sure she went there and didn’t wait outside eavesdropping. Then he’d waited for Dick to come home.

He just barely made the midnight deadline. More delay came when he’d made Dick take a quick shower. The smell of sweat and smoke and tired male could easily interfere with the magic, if only in Chicory’s concentration.

“Are you sure this is going to work?” Dick asked. Now he smelled of soap and damp hair—not noxious and deadly fumes. He turned a box of matches over and over, seemingly reluctant to open it and begin the process.

“No. But it is all I can offer you. Thistle won’t listen to you while you are big. You have to be as small as me and have wings to get her attention.” Chicory took a pinch of chili powder and mixed it with rosemary and a touch of sage. He hummed the melody of an old song while he pondered the cilantro and thyme. The composer had gotten things right. But would the exotic foreign cilantro work instead of good old-fashioned parsley?