Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3)

by Marty Wingate

  It wasn’t much, but it was more than she had before. Murray? she thought as she walked to her office. Was that the Laird’s name or was it a place? As she searched for the door key, her phone rang.

  “Jo,” she answered, “perfect timing. I have wonderful news.” She filled her in on Rosemary’s plan for Caledonian Hall. “I’ll put you two in touch to sort things out.”

  “That’s fantastic. And now,” Jo said, “a large box has just been delivered to your flat. It’s shoes.”

  “You sent me a pair of shoes?”

  “I sent you six pairs of shoes,” Jo replied. “You need to try them on and choose the pair you like the best. I’ll arrange to have the others collected. And, you might need to practice walking around your flat in the ones you keep.”

  “Mmm,” Pru said. “You sent me heels and you want to know which pair I can manage without breaking my neck, is that it?”

  “I know that you are perfectly capable of wearing a pair of heels and remaining upright,” Jo said. “You just need to get used to them. Have you heard from Madame Fiona?”

  Panic gripped Pru around the throat. “So soon? Do you think she’s ready?”

  “I expect she’ll ring this week—I know she’s working on something, although she’s keeping schtum about it. Just let me know how you get on. Must run—my client is here.”

  Pru settled into the chair at her desk and logged on to her staff email account. She scrolled through announcements of upcoming botanical conferences, notices of special works carried out in the woodland garden, a party date for April birthdays—while in her mind, she stood on the dais at Madame Fiona’s in breathless anticipation of the unveiling. Until one email brought her back to the moment. The subject line read: “I’m watching.” She didn’t recognize the address.

  What was this, spam? A sales pitch? A Nigerian doctor needing her help? Her fingers danced lightly above the keyboard before she clicked it open to find a single line: “I know what you are doing.”

  It was so quiet in her office and the hall outside her door that she could hear herself breathing. She’d forgotten how alone she was in the building. She shook her head. Be logical, she thought to herself, this is spam, some ploy to get her to click through to a website that would steal all the information on her computer. She leaned over the keyboard and peered at the address of the sender: bowwowbabe@gmail.com.

  Oh my God, she thought, it’s porn. She laughed and then clapped her hand over her mouth. No telling what kind of games this couple got up to. A joke, but one that had been misdirected. Type a wrong letter or two on an address and who knows where the email would end up. Hadn’t everyone made that mistake at least once? Pru sniggered again. Bowwowbabe. She decided not to answer—really, that would be too embarrassing. “I’m sorry, your X-rated message was not received by the intended party.”

  She jumped when the desk phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number and hesitated, but after five rings common sense prevailed.

  “Pru Parke.”

  “Pru, it’s Rosemary Campbell—I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

  She’d dropped the thank-you note into the post that morning, but Pru thanked Rosemary over the phone, too, for the lovely dinner.

  “I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but I did want to check back with you about your wedding. Did you have a particular date chosen, or would you be able to take what we could find? June is always tight, and at the moment I don’t see an opening at the hall for the entire month, but we might be able to do some creative scheduling.”

  Pru’s emotions started on a roller-coaster ride. Maybe it’s possible, maybe it isn’t, maybe it is. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt anyone else’s plans, of course. We would take any day available—absolutely any day. Or time.” Pru pictured a dawn wedding, the sun just peering in the windows, everyone’s mouth opened wide in a yawn.

  “Never fear, I’m sure we can do this for you and Christopher,” Rosemary said. “I know how important that day is for you. Oh, and, Pru,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly, “about what I told you last evening…”

  The pause went on so long, Pru thought Rosemary had rung off. “Yes?” she asked.

  “I really spoke out of turn. And I certainly wouldn’t want you to feel as if it was necessary for you to pursue the matter or apprise anyone else of the situation—just because of something I mentioned.”

  Pru faltered. “You mean…”

  “I mean that I wouldn’t want it to affect your work at the garden or”—an infinitesimal pause—“disrupt any plans you have for the rest of your stay in Edinburgh.”

  “Yes,” Pru said. “Well, of course, I…”

  Rosemary picked up the pace. “Right, well, we’ll just leave it at that, then, why don’t we? I’ll be in touch. Cheers, bye.”

  Pru sat staring at her desk while visions of the perfect wedding day melted from the movie screen in her head. She understood only part of Rosemary’s warning—talk and the wedding plans are off. But at the dinner party, she had presented Pru with two fragments of information, neither complete: one, about the arrangements for her job, and the other, about Rosemary and Iain’s long-ago relationship. Which one did Rosemary want her to keep quiet about?

  Pru realized it didn’t really matter. She’d already told Christopher everything. The shred of knowledge she’d gained about her job made her hungry for more; the idea that she’d been duped into taking the post wouldn’t go away—she must know what lay behind it all. And Tamsin needed to know about Rosemary and Iain. Silence wasn’t an option when it involved a murder investigation, even if it meant that she and Christopher would end up at the Blessed Church of the Holy Footsteps of Our Lord, with Sheena banging out a Highland fling on the organ.

  No sense in postponing the inevitable. She found Tamsin’s card and rang, but Pru had to leave a message, offering the bare facts about a long-ago possible relationship between Iain and Rosemary. “Not that it has anything to do with his death,” she rushed on. “It’s just that, in case you didn’t know, I thought I’d better say. That’s all.”

  Chapter 26

  Pru cleared her head at lunch by walking back to her flat, where she found a large box on the front step—the shoes. She dragged the box into the front room, sat on the sofa, and tore in, lining up all six pairs on the coffee table. Their neutral color—a shade of old ivory—told her nothing of the dress to come. She started with the first pair—strappy spike heels at least five inches high. She pulled off her shoes and socks and wiggled her foot through the tangle of thin straps, a couple of which ended up under her right big toe. She started over again, and finally, when every strap had been accounted for, she stood. If only for a moment.

  Her arms flew in circles as she pitched forward and then backward until finally plopping down on the sofa. My God, Pru thought—had Jo forgotten her fear of heights?

  The second pair, which had even more straps, including one that went around her ankle and closed with a tiny buckle, was no better. She eyed the next pair with caution—clunky heels and big toe enclosures; they looked like boxcars next to the stilettos. Included only for the shock value, Pru was sure. The heels of the last few pairs appeared more reasonable—at least, in comparison with the dizzying heights of the first two. Still quite spiky, but at least a bit lower to the ground, and with fewer confusing straps. She chose the least ornate of the three—leaving behind the pair with a rhinestone starburst and the pair that looked suspiciously like snakeskin—and this time when she stood, she kept her hands on the coffee table and pushed her bottom in the air, before slowly standing up straight. Good, fine. Now, to walk.

  After a few wobbles and one almost-turned ankle, she spent ten minutes circling her tiny flat. Satisfied that she’d passed the spike heels test, she restored her feet to their proper fittings and went back to work.

  At least her body was at work; she had no idea where she’d left her mind. Perhaps a light task would suit—she pulled over a pad of paper and considered potential
titles for her yet-to-be-written scholarly article on Mr. Menzies.

  She began in a serious state of mind—“Plant Collecting in South America”—but decided that would put even an academic to sleep. Next, she tried mystery: “Archibald Menzies and the Case of the Missing Journal.” Too Nancy Drew. And before she could stop herself, she’d scribbled “Is That a Fuchsia in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?” Giggling, she hastily scratched it out when her her phone rang.

  She looked at the caller ID and broke out in a sweat.

  “Madame Fiona?”

  “Ms. Parke, I want to apologize to you for any misunderstanding we might have had for your initial fitting.”

  “Oh, please, don’t worry,” Pru said.

  “I’ve had a long chat with Ms. Howard, and we are proceeding in a different direction. We go forward with confidence, Ms. Parke. Now,” she said, her voice softening, “I wonder if I could impose upon you to stop in this afternoon.”

  “For my fitting?” Pru couldn’t decide if it was better to be ambushed like this or if she’d prefer to be given time to worry about it.

  “It’s a matter of a personal nature.”

  Perhaps she needed advice about her garden. Like doctors, gardeners often fielded questions from friends and acquaintances, only the subject was different—black spot on the roses instead of a pain in the shoulder. “Well, certainly, I’d be happy to.”

  As they rang off, Saskia arrived. “Right, Pru,” she said, hanging up her coat, “what have we got today?”

  Pru opened the journal to a page she’d marked. “I was just rereading the entries for Botany Bay. Listen,” she said, and read:

  “After kindling a fire and refreshing ourselves on whatever game & fish the day afforded, we drank a cheerful glass to the memory of Captain Cook whose steps we were now pursuing…”

  “It all sounds so rosy,” Saskia said, frowning. “Even when he almost gets himself killed or when Captain Vancouver was on his case, he blathers on about camaraderie or his fondness for mosses and ferns.”

  Pru smiled; she considered his optimism part of Mr. Menzies’s charm.

  —

  Daylight had begun to extend its reign by eating into the darkness of morning and evening. Pru walked to Madame Fiona’s under sunny—or at least brighter gray—skies, and she realized that on the day of their wedding, it would be light until well after ten o’clock. Would they be dancing in Caledonian Hall with the doors open to the garden—or on the lino floor of a characterless parish hall? Dancing—her stomach lurched. She must ask Christopher about that.

  She took a deep breath and opened the door. The bell tinkled, Tassie yipped, and from behind the partition, a male voice said, “Is that you, Ms. Parke?”

  She looked around the opening, saying, “I’m sorry, is Madame Fiona not here? She asked me to…” Sitting on the sofa along one wall was the dapper, friendly man she’d talked with her first day at the garden—Alexander Donnell.

  He stood and extended his hand. “Hello again. Do you remember we’ve met?” He smiled, but it seemed a weary effort. He’d lost his dapper appearance, and his eyes were rimmed red.

  “I do, yes,” Pru said. “My first day—do you work at the garden?” She’d seen him since then, hadn’t she?

  Madame Fiona came in from the back with the tea tray and replied, “My nephew is no gardener, Ms. Parke—his creativity lies elsewhere.” She nodded from one to the other. “Ms. Parke, Alexander Donnell. Sandy, Prunella Parke.”

  Pru blushed at the use of her full name; she could still forget she lived in a country where it wasn’t that unusual. “Yes, of course,” she said, “I remember Madame Fiona mentioned you…” She stopped. The dressmaker had said Sandy had a boyfriend at the Botanics. On her first day, Alexander had asked her if she’d seen Iain. She sank down onto the bench. “Oh—you’re Iain’s partner?” Sandy pressed his lips together in what he might have intended as a smile. “I’m so sorry,” Pru said.

  He nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

  “Bourbon creams,” Madame Fiona said, setting out the tray of biscuits. “I thought we needed something special. Sandy’s favorite.” She patted her nephew’s hand.

  He smiled. “And Tassie’s,” he said. Tassie stood on her fern stand, her tiny tail quivering.

  When they had settled with tea and biscuits—Tassie crunching delicately on her morsel—Madame Fiona said, “Ms. Parke, please accept my thanks for coming round today, and on such short notice.” She slipped her feet into shoes that had been tucked under the tea table. “It’s just that I thought you might be able to offer some advice or insight into how the search is proceeding for the horrible person that killed Sandy’s Iain.”

  Sandy’s Iain. Tears sprang into Pru’s eyes—and Sandy’s, too, she could see—as she realized that Iain had belonged to someone who cared about him and missed him.

  She cleared her throat. “I don’t really have any information. The police questioned me—because we both were working on the Menzies journal,” she said in a hurry to Sandy, hoping she wouldn’t need to go into detail about the arguments that blossomed out of almost every conversation with Iain.

  “But your fiancé from the Metropolitan Police, Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said. “He was here to help you through the questioning process. Perhaps he’s assisting with the investigation?”

  Before Pru had a chance to wonder how that information had made its way to the dress shop, Sandy said, “Alastair mentioned it when I spoke with him today.”

  Well, how nice. Alastair talked with someone—just not her.

  “Christopher has nothing to do with the investigation. It’s just that he was able to come up from London for a visit. At the last minute.” But Pru hated to leave them with nothing. “You should ask the police directly. Have you spoken with Detective Inspector Blakie or DS Duncan?”

  “They’ve certainly spoken with Sandy,” Madame Fiona said, her color rising as she plonked her tea onto the table, causing a small tidal wave in her cup that sloshed over the side and into the saucer. “These police see what they want to see. Taking aim at Sandy will do them no good if they’re searching for the killer.”

  “They aren’t taking aim at me, Fee-Fee,” Sandy said. “They’re examining every eventuality—I understand that.” He turned to Pru. “It’s just that, when they look at me, they see someone with form—a police record.”

  “You were a child when that happened,” Madame Fiona said with such passion that her voice caught in her throat. “You were being bullied and beaten up by ignorant ruffians.”

  “I fought back,” Sandy said to Pru, with a small smile. “They didn’t expect that from a skinny teenager—a dancer. They didn’t know I had a bit of a temper. There were three of them—I broke a couple of noses and knocked out a few teeth. Taken into the station and charged.”

  “You had every right to defend yourself,” Madame Fiona said with a sniff.

  Sandy shook his head. “I don’t think the police see it that way.”

  Pru stole a glance at Madame Fiona, who gazed at her nephew with shining eyes.

  “It’s just standard, don’t you think, that they would want to get everyone’s story?” Pru asked. “They wanted to know where I was, and I told them I came over here”—she looked at Madame Fiona—“for my…fitting.” She must get this out. “Madame Fiona, I’m so sorry for the way I acted that afternoon.”

  Madame Fiona waved her apology away. “Don’t give it another thought, Ms. Parke. First fittings are often a shocking experience. Why, the Duchess of Knockdee fainted dead away on that very dais when I showed her my first design for her wedding dress—I believe it was her third marriage.” Madame Fiona gazed at the dais as if she could still see the recumbent form of the Duchess. “She had told me that when she was a girl, she held a great love of horses, and I felt the need to explore this equine side of her personality.”

  Sandy snorted. “I think it was the whip that did her in.”

  “Riding cr
op, young man,” Madame Fiona said while Sandy shook with laughter. “And that’ll be enough out of you.”

  Pru giggled, relieved to know she wasn’t alone when it came to outlandish first fittings. Sandy said, “I told Fee-Fee that she was missing her calling.”

  Madame Fiona smiled indulgently and said, “I must let my creative energies have their way, at least for a while. And as for you, Ms. Parke”—Pru called herself to attention—“perhaps you could stop in at lunch on Thursday. Although I am ill-prepared today, I will have something for you then.”

  Madame Fiona carried Tassie off to the back room as Pru began stacking cups. Sandy said, “My aunt is more concerned than she need be about all this police business, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I know it can be disconcerting,” Pru said. “But, you’ve told them where you were that afternoon, right?”

  Sandy looked down at his shoes for a moment. “Say, you wouldn’t have time for a drink, would you? I could explain myself better without my great defender around,” he said, nodding toward the back.

  Chapter 27

  He led them to a corner pub with a bright interior and lots of windows. A smiling waitress stopped by the table with an impressive list of cocktails and a tapas menu. It was the opposite of Pru’s usual pub haunts, but a cheery place.

  “Do you enjoy working at the garden?” Sandy said.

  Pru thought only a moment before deciding to keep the lid on that can of worms. She nodded. “Yes, it’s a lovely place. What work are you in?”

  “I’m a dancer,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh, professionally? Are you in a troupe here in Edinburgh?”

  “I own a studio. We let space to a local troupe, and come festival time, the place is heaving with bookings for out-of-town groups to rehearse. But most of the year, I teach dance.”

  The waitress set down Pru’s French 75 and Sandy’s vodka martini and left. “Cheers,” Sandy said.