A Vase of Mistaken Identity by Cathy Elliott

Author:Cathy Elliott [Elliott, Cathy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-01-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

Glenda’s curious quip stalked Thea as she pulled the Subaru into Pioneer Park. Was there something scary about Picker Pete that she should know? Something odder than his normal odd behavior? Maybe all the bulbs weren’t aglow in Pete’s chandelier, but did that make him so different from the rest?

There was plenty of protective shade for parking, something Thea thought about now that the car’s complexion was beginning to dim. She knew it wouldn’t be long until evidence of oxidation began to show and she’d have to make some choices. A paint job? Or possibly a new vehicle. That would please Rosie, who never saw the value of owning an older car. Even Gramps’s favorite ride.

“I won’t desert you, Su,” Thea said, jumping out and patting the hood. She tossed her purse on the back seat. Then she thought better of leaving it in plain sight and stretched into the cargo area of the wagon, pulling some groceries across, a culinary concealment.

How embarrassing. Thea had meant to clean out the back of the car by now. Had it only been Friday when she and Rosie had gone shopping? It seemed so much longer. Yet today was Monday. Rosie was back teaching morning kindergarten, and Thea was . . . What was she doing?

Finding Picker Pete. Right. She shook her head at her missing mental prowess.

Thea tucked her keys into a jeans pocket and, donning her sunglasses, trekked toward the banks of Fool’s Gold Creek. She kept to the bike trail, thinking Pete would do the same, and scanned the scenery for a glimpse of the elusive cyclist.

She passed the Hastings McLeod Museum, named for the town’s founding father, and hiked on. Picnic tables and barbeque pits stood scattered across the scene, the open expanse adorned with dots of color where Glenda planted her pansies. Even so, the park seemed empty and ominous today. Thea welcomed the sunny glare gleaming through the treetops, spreading a curious quilt over the lawns, the pattern of sunbeams and shadows.

The sound of water rippling over rocks made a lovely lure, but it was the recognition of Pete’s junk-laden bike that caused her to leave the safety of the path and head to the creek.

I hope there aren’t any snakes out at this hour. Or at any hour. Thea had many of the usual fears, but snakes were at the apex of her list. She took a deep breath and plunged forward, branches reaching out and grabbing her sweater.

“Stop that, rude plant,” she said, slapping at the bush and freeing a pink knit sleeve. She slipped on a stone but caught herself, wishing she had worn tennis shoes instead of clogs. One more tentative step and Thea emerged on the bank, the pebble-strewn sand soft underfoot. Picker Pete stood before her, facing downstream at the base of a tall digger pine, head bowed.

Apparently, he had not heard her approach. She tiptoed toward him, which wasn’t easy to do in the wet sand. Thea noticed a

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