have seen the weed before the grant committee could find fault with the management of the museum grounds. Especially since the committee was chaired by Dr. Johnson-Butler, the head of the Business Department at the local community college.
“The city landscape department is responsible for mowing the lawns and policing the grounds for out-of-place plants and litter,” Joe replied with firm calmness. “I shall call it to their attention.”
He flicked his head toward Dusty. She took the hint and withdrew from the pack of three committee members to inspect the garden. Joe led them from the neatly labeled plants to the long barn housing antique carriages and wagons. The potting shed, moved here from one of the first farms in the region, stood between her and the committee. The original county jail, a single-room shed sunk three feet down with only one tiny window in its uninsulated plank walls was next on the agenda. That favorite children’s attraction (topping even the replica covered wagon they could climb on) had a clear view of the knot garden. She needed to work fast.
At a first cursory glance, nothing looked out of place along the neat serpentine paths around bunches of medicinal and flavorful herbs. Then she spotted the obnoxious intruder. A single blade of grass poked one half inch above the freshly turned dirt around the lemon basil.
Dusty stooped to yank it out by the roots, careful not to trip in her heels. “That’s it? A single blade of grass?” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken until she heard her own words.
“From a single blade of grass comes a forest of uncontrolled weeds,” Dr. Johnson-Butler admonished her from halfway across the grounds and behind the wagon barn.
Couldn’t the committee content themselves with a tour of the inside of the museum and gift shop? A full two acres of grounds and he found one blade of grass out of place.
A clatter of iron-shod horseshoes and wooden wheels on the blacktop announced the arrival of the first of the parade floats. She checked her watch, half an hour early and the grant committee was still here. She didn’t dare divert to show the Historical Society where they should place their covered wagon.
Cursing under her breath, Dusty rushed to catch up with Joe.
Thistle emerged from nowhere, right in front of her. “Want me to teach him a lesson?” she giggled. Chiming music seemed to enhance her words. She looked neater and fresher than when Dusty had first found her. But dark smudges hollowed her eyes. They seemed nearly cadaverous and empty.
“No,” Dusty whispered. “We need him happy and appreciative.”
“He doesn’t appreciate anything he doesn’t initiate himself,” Thistle said, watching the man carefully.
“The jail is a favorite exhibit with the children,” Joe said, continuing his tour as if he’d never been interrupted by a weed. “As you can see, we have a modern padlock on the door for when the museum is closed, to discourage vandals and vagrants. During open hours, we remove the lock to make sure an overly enthusiastic game doesn’t result in someone getting locked in.”
“I see you have removable chain link in front of the wagons,” Mrs. Shiregrove said, with more enthusiasm than the committee chair. She had always supported the museum, buying two dozen Masque Ball tickets each year and doling them out as special favors. She also wrote large checks at Christmas. Her family money had seeded the grant fund.
Later today, she’d ride in a flower-filled open carriage representing the Garden Club in the parade.
The president of the Garden Club was the third member of the committee. She (Dusty could never remember her name) echoed Mrs. Shiregrove in everything.
“Yes. We bring out some of the less fragile exhibits for special events, like the parade today. Your carriage, Mrs. Shiregrove, is usually housed here but is now being cleaned and decorated for the festivities. Children especially love the replica covered wagon.
“The city landscape department is responsible for mowing the lawns and policing the grounds for out-of-place plants and litter,” Joe replied with firm calmness. “I shall call it to their attention.”
He flicked his head toward Dusty. She took the hint and withdrew from the pack of three committee members to inspect the garden. Joe led them from the neatly labeled plants to the long barn housing antique carriages and wagons. The potting shed, moved here from one of the first farms in the region, stood between her and the committee. The original county jail, a single-room shed sunk three feet down with only one tiny window in its uninsulated plank walls was next on the agenda. That favorite children’s attraction (topping even the replica covered wagon they could climb on) had a clear view of the knot garden. She needed to work fast.
At a first cursory glance, nothing looked out of place along the neat serpentine paths around bunches of medicinal and flavorful herbs. Then she spotted the obnoxious intruder. A single blade of grass poked one half inch above the freshly turned dirt around the lemon basil.
Dusty stooped to yank it out by the roots, careful not to trip in her heels. “That’s it? A single blade of grass?” She wasn’t aware she’d spoken until she heard her own words.
“From a single blade of grass comes a forest of uncontrolled weeds,” Dr. Johnson-Butler admonished her from halfway across the grounds and behind the wagon barn.
Couldn’t the committee content themselves with a tour of the inside of the museum and gift shop? A full two acres of grounds and he found one blade of grass out of place.
A clatter of iron-shod horseshoes and wooden wheels on the blacktop announced the arrival of the first of the parade floats. She checked her watch, half an hour early and the grant committee was still here. She didn’t dare divert to show the Historical Society where they should place their covered wagon.
Cursing under her breath, Dusty rushed to catch up with Joe.
Thistle emerged from nowhere, right in front of her. “Want me to teach him a lesson?” she giggled. Chiming music seemed to enhance her words. She looked neater and fresher than when Dusty had first found her. But dark smudges hollowed her eyes. They seemed nearly cadaverous and empty.
“No,” Dusty whispered. “We need him happy and appreciative.”
“He doesn’t appreciate anything he doesn’t initiate himself,” Thistle said, watching the man carefully.
“The jail is a favorite exhibit with the children,” Joe said, continuing his tour as if he’d never been interrupted by a weed. “As you can see, we have a modern padlock on the door for when the museum is closed, to discourage vandals and vagrants. During open hours, we remove the lock to make sure an overly enthusiastic game doesn’t result in someone getting locked in.”
“I see you have removable chain link in front of the wagons,” Mrs. Shiregrove said, with more enthusiasm than the committee chair. She had always supported the museum, buying two dozen Masque Ball tickets each year and doling them out as special favors. She also wrote large checks at Christmas. Her family money had seeded the grant fund.
Later today, she’d ride in a flower-filled open carriage representing the Garden Club in the parade.
The president of the Garden Club was the third member of the committee. She (Dusty could never remember her name) echoed Mrs. Shiregrove in everything.
“Yes. We bring out some of the less fragile exhibits for special events, like the parade today. Your carriage, Mrs. Shiregrove, is usually housed here but is now being cleaned and decorated for the festivities. Children especially love the replica covered wagon.
Similar Books
