The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  She continued to the Tube, and sat in a half-empty car with a smile on her face, rumbling along on the District Line to the Turnham Green stop. Pru’s mind shot ahead two weeks to the gala, the evening before the Chelsea Flower Show officially opened. She pictured Christopher in a striped sport coat and linen trousers. She wore a skimpy summer dress and spike heels, and they both carried flutes of champagne as she led him round the grounds, rubbing shoulders with celebrities such as Joanna Lumley and Benedict Cumberbatch. Maybe they’d even catch a glimpse of the queen.

  At the flat, she poured herself a glass of red wine, took a sip, and then got straight into the shower, after which she settled on the sofa in flannel pajamas, profoundly grateful that this would be her last single night for a while. Mrs. Miller rang to say that she would send Boris up with an article from The Telegraph about a Humphry Repton garden restoration, and so when Pru heard a scratching at the door, she called out, “All right, Boris, hang on a moment,” as she turned the latch and opened the door.

  Christopher wobbled on one leg as he balanced a large, rectangular wicker basket on his other knee. He had a bag slung over his shoulder with another on the floor, and his key in hand. Pru gasped, and he laughed. She picked up the bag from the floor as Christopher came in and set the hamper on the entry table before taking Pru in his arms for a proper hello.

  After a moment, she leaned back, braced by his hands at her waist, and said, “I’m very happy you’re here.” She detected a delicious aroma emanating from the basket—hints of beef and wine and herbs—but first things first. She traced his brow with her finger and pretended to tidy his short dark hair, which never needed tidying. She stood on tiptoe and moved closer until they were almost nose to nose. He watched her, those deep brown eyes locked on hers, before burying his face in her hair. They were like elephants, Pru thought, needing to greet each other not only by sight, but also by touch and smell.

  Christopher moved a curl of hair from off her cheek—her hair always needed tidying—and kissed her. “I finished up paperwork at the station this afternoon, went home, and then I thought what am I waiting until tomorrow for? So I packed up and here I am.”

  Mmm, she thought. He packed up clothes and more. But he did not acknowledge the basket on the table or its fragrance, and so she would play along.

  “Well,” she said, “I was just about to have cheese and crackers for my supper. Will you join me?” She kept her eyes on his and didn’t blink until she saw that ghost of a smile playing round his mouth.

  He nodded to the hamper. “Go on, then.”

  She attacked the leather straps, loosened the buckles, opened the lid on the treasure chest, and was hit full-on by such mouthwatering smells that she nearly swooned on the spot.

  Packages—round, square, and oblong—were neatly wrapped in foil and stacked like a two-level jigsaw puzzle. She smelled both savory and sweet, and couldn’t decide which was more enticing.

  “My God, what all do you have here?” She followed Christopher as he carried the hamper into the kitchen and set it on the counter.

  “Evelyn was afraid you were starving up here in foodless London. There’s a lasagna and cottage pie—those are packed in ice at the bottom—and a steak and ale pie. That one’s fresh, and she wouldn’t let me leave until it was out of the oven.”

  “Evelyn—what a sweetheart.” There was a time in the not-too-distant past when Pru would not have uttered the words “Evelyn” and “sweetheart” in the same sentence, but she and Greenoak’s housekeeper/cook had settled their differences. They’d actually become quite close. “I was supposed to start my cooking course this week,” Pru said with a stab of guilt.

  It had been Evelyn’s idea to teach Pru to cook, and she had spent weeks setting up the lessons—braising, steaming, how to make a roux. Second term would be baking. They would do it all there in the kitchen at Greenoak. Pru hated to postpone—although just the word “roux” made her nervous. She got the impression that Evelyn thought that the Chelsea Flower Show was some sort of dodge to avoid the entire thing, but Pru had made copious promises that they would begin in June.

  She poured Christopher a glass of wine as he set the table. “And the garden?” he asked.

  Pru spread her arms wide and smiled. “I’m free—Twyla has landed.”

  “At last. What’s she like?”

  “She’s…she’s great.” On the Tube journey back to the flat that evening, as she once again looked forward to the Chelsea Flower Show, Pru realized that Twyla—an American gardener in love with England—already felt like her sister, a comrade-in-arms. Pru cut generous wedges of the steak pie and set their food on the table. “We really hit it off,” she explained to Christopher. “She’s lived here before. I think it’s going to be fun working with her.”

  “I can imagine the rest of them were happy to see her.”

  “I don’t think they know yet. They’re at The Mousetrap tonight.”

  “Agatha Christie? Did the butler do it?”

  “I don’t think there is a butler in this one.”

  “And Twyla,” Christopher said. “Will she take control of everything—the crew, the plants, the designer?”

  “I think they were being a bit hard on her—all that ‘Frau Woodford’ business. She has a vision.” Twyla’s vision made sense to Pru, and she could understand the woman’s single-mindedness. “Although there’s some lingering problem she wants to talk to me about in the morning. I got the idea it has to do with Roddy MacWeeks, but we’ll see.”

  They sat down to their dinner—and to a scratching at the door.

  “There you are now, that must be Boris,” Pru said. “Come and meet him.”

  —

  “We could have lunch together,” Pru said before she walked out the door the next morning. “I’m sure I can take a longer break.”

  “Give me a ring when you know,” Christopher replied, sitting at the table over his second cup of tea. “I told Mrs. Miller I’d take Boris out to the Common for a good walk first thing, and after that I’m going round to the station to say hello.”

  Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse, Chelsea Borough—that’s what he’d been when they’d first encountered each other. But he had left the Met when they married the year before, and although Pru knew that Christopher loved the countryside and Greenoak, she sometimes wondered if he didn’t miss London and police work just a bit. He’d arrived yesterday in his country clothes—mossy greens and russets—but this morning he wore his DCI “uniform,” a dark blue suit. He was quite appealing in or out of either. Pru smiled to herself—well, perhaps she preferred “out.”

  There was the promise of sun—not actual sun, but the cloud cover seemed thin, as if at any moment a sliver of blue sky might muscle its way through—and a sweet scent to the air. Flowering plums, she thought. A week had gone by since Pru had cast her lot in with the ARGS garden at the Chelsea Flower Show, and now, into the second week of buildup, optimism shone brighter than any ray of sunshine. She walked quickly and with purpose down the road from the Tube station, her breath like puffs from a toy locomotive. Perhaps it would even warm up today.

  Pru entered through the London gate and walked down Main Avenue—taking her place as one of a stream of crewmembers heading to various sites on the grounds, all wearing their acid-yellow high-vis vests. She glanced round to see if Twyla was among them, and noticed the lorries already beginning to deliver plants. What would they do about plants? Pru fretted, but then remembered that she no longer had to worry about it.

  Halfway to the Rock Garden Bank, she heard a high-pitched scream. At first, it blended with the lorries beeping their backup warnings, but it went on so long that people stopped what they were doing and looked round for the source. The scream faded at last, drifting away on the breeze.

  Pru looked straight ahead of her, at the ARGS site, and saw Sweetie standing near the trench for the wall. The woman took a huge breath, and another scream began. Pru ran. Sweetie appeared to be co
llapsing in slow motion, falling gradually to the ground—Pru wouldn’t reach her in time, but it didn’t matter, because a tall figure appeared and caught her in his arms.

  “What?” Pru asked, gasping when she reached them. “What’s wrong?”

  It was the Aussie, Skippy, who had got to Sweetie first, and he shook his head in bewilderment at Pru while his damsel stirred.

  “Sweetie, what is it?”

  Sweetie’s face was the color of paste, and her hand shook as she pointed behind Pru to the trench they’d dug for the dry stone wall. Chiv had not done much yet, only laid the footing stones in the bottom and built a short length at the far back. But now a heap of smaller rocks—the ones he called filling stones—had been dumped onto one section of the trench, and piled so high they spilled out over the ground. Sweetie sobbed into Skippy’s shoulder. Pru frowned—first at Sweetie and then at the heap of rocks. She walked the few feet over to look closer.

  In the trench, amid the stones, she saw a patch of blue—the color of bluebonnets, the color of the sweatshirts they all wore. Pru’s heart thumped in her chest when she realized something—someone—lay beneath the heap. At one end, a hand, unmoving, extended from under the rocks, at the other end, the toe of a boot, and between, swirling round the stones—long blond hair, fading to gray.

  “Ambulance!” Pru screamed. “Ring the ambulance!” She dropped to her knees and threw stones off Twyla’s still form, scraping away the smaller rocks, all the time talking to her. “Twyla, it’s Pru. Twyla, be all right, please be all right.”

  She wasn’t all right; Pru knew that but couldn’t admit it. As she scrambled to uncover her, she could see that Twyla lay on her side, with her head turned, facing skyward. Pru could see the bruises at her throat. She gasped as a pair of firm hands clamped onto her shoulder. Chiv.

  It was the last clear moment she had for a good while—Chiv’s weathered face twisted in pain as he looked down on Twyla’s body. His grip on Pru’s shoulder tightened, his head shot up, and he scanned the gathering crowd.

  “Where’s Iris?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  “Nothing is more frustrating for a gardener than being told what she or he can—and cannot—do, but occasionally and unfortunately, we must abide by the edicts of the powers that be. The rally set for Monday to protest construction on a site of the rare gravelbar brickellbush has had to be called off on the ‘advice’ of the Austin City Police. This isn’t over.”

  Alert from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 9

  Pru sat on a stack of lumber with KayAnn and Nell on either side, an arm round each. Both sobbed uncontrollably. “God’s punishing me,” one of them said, “because of what I said about her.” Up until that moment, Pru had wanted to comfort the women, who had collapsed when they’d caught sight of the situation, but at that statement she felt like giving both of them a good shake.

  “Ivory,” she said, nodding to the pair. Ivory took her place, and Pru stood, felt woozy, and put her hand out against the shed as she watched more uniforms arrive. How much time had passed since she’d heard Sweetie scream—a half hour? More?

  The security guards had made it to the scene first and called for help, pushing people back. They had herded Pru and the other ARGS crewmembers within the garden space, but at the opposite end of the site from where Twyla’s body lay. The wail of sirens grew from nothing until they filled the air just as Ivory and Rosette arrived. Rosette had cried out and dropped to her knees and Ivory had pulled her away. KayAnn and Nell had followed. Where had Chiv gone? Before she could wonder, he appeared again with Iris and Teddy, just as the uniformed police constables rushed in with the EMTs. What good they would do was anybody’s guess.

  PCs wrapped blue-and-white police tape round the garden and kept people well away. Pru noticed Forde at the back of the crowd, moving from side to side, trying to look over shoulders. He wore his ARGS sweatshirt and when he pushed through and spoke with the PCs, they allowed him access.

  Pru went to him before he could reach the trench, where police busied themselves taking photos. One stood looking up at the digger, its empty bucket raised high.

  “Forde.” She grabbed hold of his arm. “I’m sorry—there’s been a terrible…” Accident? No, it certainly wasn’t an accident. “It’s Twyla. She’s dead.”

  Forde’s face flushed and he pushed up closer to the trench. A PC caught him, but not before he saw Twyla. They had uncovered her, rock by rock, but her body—stretched along the trench as if she had been swimming up a two-foot-deep dry streambed—had not been moved. Forde’s breathing became labored, and when Pru heard him retch, she took hold of his arms, hurried him off behind the shed, and left him to it.

  She returned to find more police—two men in suits squatting down over the trench and talking with a woman in blue paper coveralls and gloves. When the woman lifted Twyla’s arm and pointed something out, Pru had to look away. Why won’t they cover her up? she thought.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” a PC said to her. “Would you come this way?” He pointed to the rest of the ARGS group.

  Pru joined them and Forde staggered out from behind the shed, a handkerchief to his mouth. One of the suited men held out his identification—badge and warrant card. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector French and this is Detective Sergeant Chalk, Metropolitan Police. I understand you all knew the deceased. I realize this is an upsetting event for you, but we are going to need to speak to each of you about Ms. Woodford.” He looked from face to face, lingering for a fraction of a second on Pru.

  Pru looked away, but not before she had taken quick stock of DCI French. He was at least fifteen years younger than she. He looked to be of Asian descent, but light-skinned, his straight hair, neatly parted, more blond than brown. His mild-looking face revealed nothing.

  “I’m sure you all understand the gravity of this situation,” he continued, “and that’s why we’ll need to collect your passports and hold them while we look into what’s happened.”

  The Austin women looked at each other. “We don’t have them with us,” Rosette said.

  “Understood,” French replied calmly. “DS Chalk will accompany you back to your accommodations when we’re finished here. Right now, we’ve a room set aside where you can all sit and have a cup of tea as we chat with each of you.”

  Well, wasn’t that a lovely way to say that the police will question you as to your whereabouts and your relationship with Twyla Woodford. Pru took a step to follow, but was met with DCI French’s arm barring her way.

  “May I have a word?” he asked, and with one gesture moved her a few steps away from the rest of the group. Pru glanced back at them as they gathered up bags and clung to one another, following the PCs to a nearby building.

  “I know who you are, Ms. Parke.”

  He got her attention, but she was stunned into silence.

  “What I mean to say is that I have the greatest respect for Inspector”—French caught himself and started again—“Mr. Pearse, but he is no longer with the Metropolitan Police. Of course, you know that, but I want to make it clear that as he is no longer associated with the Met, he has no jurisdiction, no power, no ability to involve himself in any of its investigations. And neither do you. I thought it better to state this clearly at the start.”

  Pru opened her mouth, trying to force a few words out, but couldn’t settle on what those words should be. She heard the edge of an accusation in his statement—aimed at her more than Christopher—as if French warned her off because he believed she made it her habit to interfere with police proceedings, which was completely untrue. Almost untrue. As she searched for a reply, her phone rang.

  “I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Ms. Parke, but it’s the way things are,” French said, nodding toward her phone. “And Mr. Pearse will tell you the same thing.”

  French left, and Pru moved to the back of the garden as she answered.

  “Christopher?” she whispered, although
she didn’t need to—no one was near her. But better that than to have her voice break.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, but how did you…”

  “Who was it?”

  So he hadn’t heard—at least, hadn’t heard details.

  “Twyla.” She just managed that much. Shock, anger, revulsion, sadness, fear—Pru felt as if she could barely keep her head above the sea of emotions that threatened to drown her. She turned her mouth away from the phone and gasped for air, before asking, “How did you hear?”

  “I arrived at the station just before the call came in. French left, and it’s taken me until now to find out where he’d gone. Are you giving statements there?”

  The tone of his voice, as much husband as detective, gave her the courage to continue. “Yes, they’re taking us into one of the buildings. I suppose I’d better follow. Can you—” She stopped herself. “No, you can’t—DCI French’s dictum.”

  “He’s right. I have no credentials to get onto the grounds, either from the show or from the police. But I’ll be waiting for you when you finish.”

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “Ring me when they let you go. I’ll be close.”

  —

  They sat with cups of sugary tea in front of them, in a building that would house a champagne bar during the Chelsea Flower Show—now empty of comfort except for a smattering of chairs and a few long tables. The police used the kitchen for questioning and had taken Skippy in first.

  “Ivory,” Pru said, leaning forward. Ivory, at the far end of the table, looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Did you see her last night? Or this morning?”

  Ivory shook her head but didn’t speak. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the sniffles from KayAnn and Nell, and the echoing footsteps of a PC who made a circuit of the room every few minutes as if monitoring a classroom during midterms. Rosette stared at the table, occasionally reaching out and patting the younger women’s hands, which prompted one of them to sob, “Oh, Rosette, it’s so awful.” Ivory said something to them, and they began a low conversation. Forde occupied a chair in the middle. He clutched his handkerchief, looking a shade of green that reminded Pru of old pickles. At a nearby table, Chiv, Iris, and Teddy huddled together.