The Skeleton Garden

by Marty Wingate

  “You’ll tell Christopher, won’t you?”

  “I hate to bother him about it.”

  “I’ll mention it to him.” The world seemed suddenly full of yobs.

  —

  Evelyn had the counter covered in luncheon preparations. Simon sat scraping butter across his toast, and Christopher poured a cup of tea. Pru was brimming with good news, but wanted to share it with Christopher first.

  “Good morning, Evelyn,” she said.

  “Good morning, Pru,” Evelyn replied, and Pru heard Simon’s knife pause in mid-scrape as he looked over at the two of them. “Would you like another pot of tea? I can just put the kettle on.”

  “No,” Pru said, “you keep going there. We’ll be fine. Simon and I have a bit more to do after our breakfast, then I’ll come in and clean up.” She looked at her brother’s daily work clothes, which included a corduroy jacket with frayed cuffs and trousers streaked with soil. He was in sock feet—Evelyn made him leave his boots in the mudroom. “You’ll go home and change, won’t you?”

  “It’s the garden meant to impress, not us.”

  “Still, no sense in looking like ruffians,” she said, sitting down to her breakfast.

  Simon stared at her for a moment. “You sounded like Birdie just then,” he said, not at all in an angry tone.

  “I’ll secure the garden before I leave,” Christopher said. He had offered to tie blue-and-white police tape across each of the four openings to the parterre lawn. Better to provide only a distant view—the marquee still covered the pit, and the dug-up hebes and boxwood, pushed against the hedge, were most likely destined for the compost heap.

  “Thanks.” She swallowed spoonful after spoonful of her porridge without tasting it, and it formed a mass in her stomach like a bowling ball. Christopher stood, and she put a hand up, a silent plea for him to wait for her. When they got out the door, they met Martin in the yard.

  “Martin, good thing you’re here,” she said, as if she had called a meeting. “Listen to this, both of you—the night Jack died and Peachey saw Simon pulling out of the drive—Peachey walked into the parterre lawn before he left and he didn’t see anything. No Jack, nothing.” In her euphoria, she practically sang the words, filling them both in on the details of Peachey’s visit the night of Jack’s death. “So when Simon left here, nothing had happened. Is that in Peachey’s statement?”

  Pru looked at Christopher, who looked at Martin, who looked at the ground.

  “Well, you see,” Martin said, “that’s just why I’ve stopped here this morning, Christopher. It’s about Peachey—there’s something that doesn’t add up.”

  Pru’s euphoria dissolved. She had meant to absolve her brother, not implicate Peachey. “Wait—Peachey’s van was broken into,” she said, hurrying on. “He said it happened last night. He interrupted the fellow, and he got away.”

  “Did he call it in?” Christopher asked.

  She shook her head. “He didn’t seem to think much of it. He said tools were scattered about, but nothing was taken.”

  “I’ll ring him and take a look,” Christopher said, eyeing Martin. “Unless you’d like to?”

  “I will, of course I will,” Martin said. “Could I speak to you about this other?”

  Christopher kissed Pru. “Good luck today.”

  She watched them drive off, longing to hear what Martin had to say, but she would have to wait until evening. As their cars pulled out of the drive, the impending visit from The English Garden staff muscled its way back into her mind.

  Chapter 27

  From the upstairs window, Pru saw a sleek black car turn into the drive. She checked the clock—just gone one, right on time. She buttoned up her cardigan and stuffed her hair into its clip, took a deep breath, and walked down the stairs slowly and carefully, holding fast to the rail. Still, she ended breathless at the bottom. The car had pulled up in front, and by the time Pru stepped out, the engine had been switched off, the driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs emerged—long, slender, black-stockinged legs that ended in high, thin heels, the kind that Pru had practiced walking in for her wedding.

  The legs—that is, the woman—wore a tight red suit that revealed a fair bit of push-up bra. She pulled a sleek, black coat out of the car and hitched a voluminous black bag onto her arm. Her blond hair, thick, smooth, and shiny—the hair of a shampoo commercial—reached past her shoulders.

  “Jacinta Bloom, editor in chief, The English Garden,” the woman said, thrusting her arm out, a thin smile stretching from ear to ear. She glided across the drive, skinny heels never sinking into the gravel, as if she were walking on water. “You must be Pru. I know that you’re quite familiar with our magazine, so I didn’t bother bringing a copy—after all, my first issue as editor in chief isn’t out yet. But just you keep an eye peeled—big changes are coming.”

  At close range, Jacinta aged a decade or so, with gray roots at her temples, a few wrinkles about her neck, and a slight puffiness to her face. “We are so very delighted to be here at Greenoak,” the editor continued. It wasn’t until Jacinta said “we” that Pru realized two other people had emerged from the car. “My intern, Esther Watling,” Jacinta said, using both hands to present the short young woman standing next to her, as if Esther was about to break out in a tap dance.

  “Hello,” Esther said with a warm smile. “I’m pleased to meet you. Isn’t Hampshire lovely, even this late in the year.” Esther carried a tablet computer with her and was dressed for weather in Wellies untouched by mud, and country clothes that were probably seeing their first glimpse of the country.

  “And, of course, you’re familiar with our photographer, Derek Fame. Derek’s latest book, The Private Gardens of Monaco, was a finalist for the Guild awards, wasn’t it, Derek?” Jacinta asked. “I’m sure given the slightest provocation, he will tell you all about how many times the prince flew him down for photo shoots, now won’t you?”

  Derek stuck his hand out. “How are you, ducks?” he asked in a gravelly voice. Derek looked to be an old-school photographer, with two cameras hanging around his neck and a misshapen hat that could have held a “press” ticket in its band. He looked at least ten years older than Pru and had that smirk about him as if to say he’d seen it all, and don’t you think he hadn’t.

  Pru heard a car on the drive and breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh good, here’s Simon. Now you’ve got both gardeners.”

  “Lovely, yes, how nice to meet Simon as well,” Jacinta said. “But we know the real story, don’t we?” she asked, tapping a finger on the side of her nose. She took a deep breath as she scanned the scene and said, as if to herself, “Yes, this is perfect. Wait’ll they see what I can do.”

  As Jacinta glided across the gravel, arm thrust out toward Simon and with Esther in her wake, Pru stood rooted to the ground. Jacinta’s words wound round her middle like a tendril of bindweed, making it difficult to breathe. After a moment, she realized that Derek had remained behind, too, and was watching her.

  “Is it lunch first, and then the garden tour?” Jacinta asked as she, Simon, and Esther rejoined them at the front door.

  Simon had smartened himself up with a tweed jacket and shoes that could be worn indoors. Pru gave him a smile of approval. “Yes,” she said. “Evelyn has everything ready. Let’s go in.”

  Jacinta took the head of the table, with the gardeners on her right and left followed by Derek and Esther. Evelyn outdid herself with an elegant lunch of salmon en croute with a white wine sauce and a winter salad of shredded kale topped with cubes of roasted squash and beetroot in a ginger-lime dressing.

  During the meal, Simon and Pru dominated the conversation. Simon focused on their hopes for what was to come, but Pru emphasized what he’d already accomplished. Jacinta nodded and dropped in one-word comments—“Fantastic!” “Amazing!”—that could have referred to the meal as well as the plans for a bay laurel hedge.

  When the last drop of Pouilly-Fumé had been drained into Jacinta’s g
lass, they all sat back for a breather. Esther glanced round the room and said, “You have a lovely house, Pru. Have you lived here long?”

  Jacinta replied, “It was a gift, wasn’t it, from incredibly generous friends who had no idea what might happen while you were here—or did they?” Pru opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out.

  Derek filled in. “There’s no incredibly generous gift that doesn’t have a string or two attached as far as Jacinta’s concerned, isn’t that right?”

  Jacinta ignored him. Evelyn came in with dessert, and as the others were drawn to the sautéed apples swimming in a pool of warm custard, Jacinta leaned over to Pru and, in a quiet voice, asked, “Do you find it difficult after all your experiences with death to remain a gardener?”

  Pru flinched, as if Jacinta has scuffed her way across a rug and touched her with an index finger full of static electricity. Jacinta didn’t wait for an answer, but squealed, “Ooo—pudding!” as Evelyn set a bowl in front of her.

  —

  After coffee, they pulled themselves out of their chairs, donned coats, and headed to the garden. Pru followed, her shaking fingers having trouble with the buttons on her jacket. She had been right—Jacinta’s interest in the garden had more to do with murder than box balls.

  Jacinta took off for the walled garden. She had a long stride and talked and gestured as she walked, flinging her arms here and there. The veg garden “stalwart,” the partially installed herb beds “layered with complexity,” and the bare earth that would be the 1940s cutting garden “precious.” She reached out to the two urns on the terrace—planted up just that morning—as if absorbing a message. “The symmetry of stone and sky offset by these sentinels—a touching symbol of two cultures meeting. Did you get that, Esther?”

  “Yes, Ms. Bloom,” the intern said, typing away into her tablet.

  As they walked behind the house along the flagstone path that led to the Mediterranean garden, Pru lagged behind, but Derek lagged even further. At one point, Jacinta looked over her shoulder, and said, “Get up off the ground, Derek, we’re not playing marbles.” Pru turned to see the photographer flat on his stomach behind them, camera in hand. He got up, dusted himself off, and gave Pru a wink.

  Jacinta stood at the corner of the terrace and pointed down toward the hornbeam walk, like a figurehead on the bow of a ship. “Derek,” she said, “can you get this and the Hampshire sky beyond. Derek?”

  They all turned to see Derek still at the other end of the walk, sitting on stone with legs splayed and elbows braced on his thighs as he photographed a swath of hardy cyclamen at the base of a witch hazel.

  “Try to keep up,” Jacinta snapped at him as if he were a wayward toddler. Simon led them off, describing how he’d trained the hornbeams into a stilt hedge. Pru hung back.

  “Have you been with the magazine long?” she asked Derek, by which she meant, “How can you stand working with that woman?”

  “Freelance,” Derek replied. “I work for myself, although I’ve been associated with the magazine far longer than its current editor.” He said it loud enough that Jacinta, bent over to examine a variegated myrtle, glared at him over her shoulder.

  When the others had moved off and were out of earshot, Jacinta turned to Pru. “To have been a part of such desperate and violent acts—how devastating for you,” she said.

  “I was never—” Pru said in protest, but she spoke to the air, as the editor had put on speed and caught up with the group.

  They’d made it to the front of the house, all except Derek. The yew hedge round the parterre lawn stood in front of them, a green wall, decorated only by the police tape across each entrance.

  “There it is,” Jacinta said in a stage whisper. “We couldn’t take just a peek inside, could we?”

  “No, we couldn’t,” Pru almost shouted, the vise grip round her waist tightening.

  Simon had gone ahead with Esther and now called back to them, “Just nipping into the shed to fetch my journals on the garden.” Esther remained at the corner of the house.

  Pru and Jacinta stood in a silent vacuum until Pru could stand it no longer. “These roses are on their own roots,” she said, pointing to either side of the front door. “Simon wouldn’t grow anything else. And they bloom for six months.”

  “I’m taking the magazine in a new direction,” Jacinta said, with a satisfied nod.

  “It’s a gardening magazine, in what possible other direction could you take it?” Pru asked.

  “This is my chance to show them,” Jacinta muttered.

  “Your last chance, don’t you mean?” Derek had come up behind them. “Did Jacinta tell you where she began her journalism career?” Jacinta scanned the garden and acted as if she hadn’t heard him. “Tabloid newspapers—and she’s quite keen to bring that approach to The English Garden. Why not a bit of scandal growing among the clematis—makes working in the dirt seem just that much dirtier, doesn’t it?”

  “Shut it, Derek,” Jacinta replied, diving in her bag and pulling out a tube of lipstick. “Readers will be gasping for articles on murder and mayhem in the country—you just watch our subscriptions skyrocket. The publisher will love what I do. He has to.”

  “This article is about the garden,” Pru said, her face growing warm and her eyes filling, “not about anything I’ve ever been involved in.”

  “I know what readers want, Pru,” Jacinta said, “and it isn’t a load of bedding out. They want a story.”

  “You’ve got a story,” Pru said, in a hoarse whisper, as hot tears spilled onto her cheeks. “Simon made this garden—the Mediterranean terrace was his idea. He’s the one who planted the half-hardy vines on the wall. He’s the one who has kept them alive. The herb garden, the cutting garden—all his. He designed and planted the parterre lawn.” The site of Jack’s murder, so not the best example. “This is a fine, established garden, well-suited to the house and its style. I’m Simon’s sister, and I’m helping him. That’s the story.”

  “Not the way we’ll write it,” Jacinta said coolly, as she dropped her lipstick back into the bag.

  “Then you won’t write it at all,” Pru replied, wiping the tears from her face.

  “Won’t write it?” Jacinta asked, her eyes wide with the innocence of the guilty. “This is your chance for international fame, and you’re rejecting it out of hand? You’re saying no?”

  Her fierce Texas pride, normally dormant, flared up in Pru. “I’m saying, ‘Hell, no.’ ”

  Jacinta arched a well-plucked eyebrow at her. “Are you sure this is what Simon would want?”

  “It isn’t the sort of exposure we’re interested in,” Pru said, chin in the air. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow—this was Simon’s dream she was about to trash. “We don’t want the article, that’s that.”

  “Here now,” Simon said, walking up to them with an open notebook in hand. “I tried three different places for that Chilean glory vine, but finally settled on one of the nooks on the south wall. Of course, we mulch it well.” He held out the stack of journals to Jacinta. “You can have these for now if you like. Bring them back for the photo shoot.”

  Jacinta flashed a tinny smile at him. “Wonderful, Simon,” she said, flipping through the pages.

  Pru’s phone vibrated, but she almost didn’t feel it, she was shaking with such rage. She stepped away and read the text from Christopher: “Going well?”

  Her fingers trembled as she attempted to reply with Opportunistic witch—but the screen filled with other letters, making her comment unintelligible. She deleted the message and put the phone back into her pocket.

  “I tell you what,” Jacinta said, turning her back on Pru and returning the journals to Simon, “we’ll just let you hold on to them for us, shall we? Your sister seems reluctant to commit to our story. I’d be so sorry to lose this feature—after all the work you’ve done—but you must realize that the both of you need to give us permission.” Over Jacinta’s shoulder, Pru could see the fire ignit
e in Simon’s eyes and spots of color appear on his cheeks. She’d explain it to him later.

  Jacinta continued, her voice smooth, low, and musical, purring like a cat that has cornered a mouse. “We’ll be back in touch soon. I hope you two can sort this out,” she said, sticking out her bottom lip in a tiny pout of concern. “I know how much this means to you, Simon.” Her eyes lingered on Pru for a moment. “Right, well, we’ve a drive ahead of us.” Esther followed her to the car, and Simon walked over to open the doors for them, but Derek stayed where he was, looking at the screen on one of his cameras and pressing buttons. “Derek?” Jacinta said sharply.

  Derek took his time shutting off the camera, after which he reached in the breast pocket of his jacket and handed Pru a card. “It was good to meet you, Pru. Very enlightening.” Farewells were said, and the car made its way down the drive and out into the lane.

  Brother and sister stood in silence for a few moments. Simon’s eyes flickered to Pru and away.

  “Simon, listen,” she started.

  “You thought this was all a lark, didn’t you?” he asked, his face flushed and his eyes shining.

  “No,” she said, immediately on the defensive. “It isn’t what you think. I was fine with the article until she got here.” Simon had walked away and Pru followed. “You don’t know what she wanted.”

  “It doesn’t matter what she wanted, not now that you’ve shut down the whole idea.” He kept going until he got to his car, and Pru was at his heels.

  “I didn’t want her to turn this into some sordid story of—”

  Simon whirled around as he pulled at the car door. “If you think the garden isn’t good enough, then maybe you should take it all over yourself. Time for me to retire, is that what you think? Well, there you are then—I quit.”

  Pru recoiled, and Simon slammed the door and left, a spray of gravel peppering her legs as he sped off.