“You can’t be coming down from Newcastle every day, Forde—where are you staying?” she asked.
“I’ve taken a flat in Mayfair for the month,” he said, slightly out of breath even though he stood at a standstill.
“Mayfair? My, that must be some buyout from GlobalSynergy.”
Forde shrugged, stuck a finger in the neck of his sweatshirt, and pulled at the stretchy fabric. “Well, near Mayfair.”
They stood in silence for a moment. Forde seemed reluctant to join the group, and Pru was reluctant to abandon him. At last, she nodded toward the food. “Shall we?”
Once their plates were full, the group settled in small clusters round the room. Kit sat on a footstool across from Forde and began a conversation. Forde’s animated features told Pru that he had started describing his research or the business buyout or the DNA of the bluebonnet. Christopher would have plenty of time to eat.
Chiv sat on the sofa next to Pru.
“Did you cook this?” he asked, waving his fork over a helping of lasagna.
“Ha,” Pru said. “You have no idea what a joke that question is. No, a friend did. Delicious, isn’t it?”
Chiv nodded, his mouth full. Ivory sat down on the other side of him, and Chiv shifted toward Pru to give her room.
“So, you don’t have any more like Kit down in Hampshire, do you?” he asked.
“No, no more like Kit—he’s one of a kind.”
“Too bad. What do you think—could we get Sweetie to bat her eyes at Skippy and see if he’d defect from Oz to us?”
Pru laughed and Chiv grinned.
“Mind if I squeeze in?” Iris said, looking at the inch of space left on the sofa. Ivory pushed herself up against one end and Iris insinuated herself between Pru and Chiv, until they sat with all four plates of food touching.
“I hear you’re from Somerset,” Pru said to Iris. “Are you from Somerset, too, Chiv?”
But Chiv’s attention had shifted to the entry, and the room had fallen silent.
“Good evening. I haven’t missed anything, have I?”
All eyes were on Damien Woodford, framed by the archway, standing in a dripping raincoat.
“Attraction is a powerful force. Do you know how to lure the best of the best to your garden? For each beneficial insect listed below, provide the name of a plant that attracts it: Red wasp, syrphid fly, damselfly, giant wheel bug.”
Quiz Time at the monthly meeting of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 18
“Hey, Damien.” Ivory set her plate down, heaved herself off the sofa, and went to him. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you could make it.” She helped him out of his raincoat and hung it on the coatrack. He straightened his tie and unbuttoned his suit jacket.
“And you’re just in time to eat,” Ivory continued. “Why don’t you grab a plate? Oh wait, you don’t know everyone, do you? Girls”—she gestured to KayAnn and Nell—“this is Damien. You know he got us this house for the month.” The two women thanked him profusely. “And that’s Kit—he’s new today to help us get this garden built.” The men shook hands. “And here’s Pru.”
Pru stood with her plate of food in one hand and held out the other. “Pru Parke. It’s so good of you to take care of everyone this way. And for GlobalSynergy to sponsor the garden. And…I’m very sorry. About Twyla.” Divorced or not, surely he deserved condolences.
A tic appeared near his left eye, as if he flinched from a blow. “Thank you,” he replied. “I’m sorry about the other day—running into you.”
“No, it’s all right. It was a terrible time. And now we miss her so.”
He frowned. “But it was my understanding that you two didn’t know each other.”
Pru nodded and then shook her head. “We’d met only that evening, after everyone had left. We had a good talk, though.”
Rosette appeared at Damien’s side, holding out a glass of red wine. “Thanks,” he said, taking it and peering into her face like a doctor checking on a patient. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know.”
That intimate exchange reminded Pru that Ivory’s introductions had not included Sweetie or Rosette—and that the three women must’ve known Twyla long enough to remember Damien in Austin.
Ivory escorted Damien to the food, and others shifted to different seats, as if in a game of musical chairs. Pru took the opportunity to sit at an empty spot next to Teddy.
“I hear you’re in forestry,” she said. “What do you think of the Norway spruce? I’ve heard such mixed opinions—it’s a valuable timber crop, it’s an exotic nuisance.”
Teddy blossomed before her eyes, changing from an uncommunicative teenager to a soul who had found his calling. He gave her a short and lively treatise on the management of trees for wildlife—birds, mammals, insects. Pru, delighted with this inroad, pointed out that the ARGS garden was designed to highlight the importance of biodiversity.
“Forde can tell you about that—his entire research is on the bluebonnet. I’m sure he knows what an important food source it is for the native insects, including bees. Forde?” Pru looked round the room.
“Gone,” Ivory said from the sofa. “Said he had work to do.” She leaned forward and whispered, “I don’t think he does well in social situations.”
When Teddy excused himself to refill his plate, Pru took hers to the kitchen, where Sweetie and Damien sat with elbows on the table, over mugs of coffee.
“Oh, sorry,” Pru said. “I only—” She held up her empty plate.
“Come on in,” Sweetie said. “We’re just talking old times. I made a pot of coffee—want some?”
“Sure, but I’ll get it. You stay there.”
“No,” Sweetie said, and stood. “I think I’ll make the rounds and collect empty plates.”
“You’d better hurry or Rosette will beat you to it,” Damien said, and Sweetie gave a light laugh.
In the bright light of the kitchen, Pru could see Damien’s details. His dark red hair, thin enough to see scalp through, was short and slicked back. His complexion, so common in aging gingers, had a translucent appearance and his eyes a hollow look, but whether that was from his high cheekbones or the circumstances of Twyla’s death, she didn’t know.
“I remember Sweetie’s husband—ex-husband,” Damien said after Sweetie had left. “Successful developer. Easy to talk with. Always spoke well of himself.” Damien threw a look into the dining room, where Roddy waved his arms round as he talked with the mesmerized KayAnn and Nell. “Like some others.”
“How did you meet Twyla?” Pru leaned against the counter, holding her coffee in both hands.
“At a gallery opening in Bristol—I was looking to invest in art, and the event was for a large-scale installation by a cutting-edge artist. Who has since moved into landscapes.” No need to mention Roddy by name. “And to answer your next question, yes—she was still with him that night.”
Pru blushed. She wouldn’t have asked, but was glad he had answered. “It’s only that, I don’t know much about her, and yet I feel as if I’ve lost a good friend.”
“MacWeeks was a distraction, that’s all—and the shine had worn off quickly. He was far too concerned with his art to pay attention to her.” Damien paused and looked down at the table as if it were a crystal ball to the past. Pru waited, hoping he would continue his story. “She was floundering when we met—she felt as if her grand scheme and new life had come to nothing. I don’t regret stepping in for the rescue—not for a minute. Family obligations in Austin called her home, and I decided it would be a good move for me, too. I was interested in expanding our business to the States, and Texas seemed as good a place as any to start. She hated leaving England behind. It didn’t work out quite as I’d hoped. Not the business—none of it.”
“And yet you must’ve stayed friends. You’ve done so much for her—for the group. Paid for a month in this house.”
A tired smile crossed Damien’s face. “She had that way abo
ut her.”
“And the sponsorship from your company and Forde’s—how did that come about?”
“Where is Forde?” Damien asked, scowling. “Is he here?”
“He was earlier, but he’s left.”
A burst of laughter came from the sitting room, catching their attention for a moment.
“How was she when you saw her?” Damien asked Pru.
How odd, Pru thought, that she had become the repository of the last memories of Twyla. Except for the person who killed her, of course. What memories did the murderer hold? “She was full of plans, full of life,” Pru answered. “Excited at seeing what she’d worked so hard for become real. Happy to be here. I’m sure she was looking forward to seeing all of you after so many years.” Happy, excited—Pru wished she had more to say, but their time together had been so short.
“Chocolate-chip cheesecake,” Ivory’s voice boomed from the sitting room. “But before we get to dessert, could y’all come in here for a minute?” Pru left the kitchen to stand behind the sofa; Damien remained in the doorway.
Ivory stood at the fireplace. “I want to say something. First, I want to thank everyone for coming over tonight. I know this is really hard now and we’re all sad about Twyla, because she was such a doll.” Ivory paused a moment. There were murmurs of assent round the room, and Pru felt ashamed at ever thinking otherwise of Twyla. “This garden meant a lot to her. It was her dream—and it has become our dream, too. But Twyla is the one who thought it all up and put it down on paper. This is her garden and we are going to build it.” Ivory’s voice rose in volume and emotion, and the murmurs increased. “For Twyla, we’re gonna see bluebonnets, right here in England. We’re gonna see the Texas hill country at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“Amen!” shouted KayAnn and Nell, holding their forks in the air.
“Is that what we’ll see, MacWeeks?” Chiv’s sharp question cut through the emotion in the room. He sat on the deep sill of the front window, arms crossed, narrowing his eyes at Roddy, who stood in the far corner near a bookcase. “Will we see Twyla’s garden?”
The Austin women’s heads whipped from Chiv to Roddy and back to Chiv.
“Leave off him, Chiv,” Damien said. “Wasn’t it Twyla who asked him to do this?”
“Thank you very much, Woodford,” Roddy snapped, “but I believe I can stand on my own merits without your help.”
The three men threw one another black looks, and for a moment Pru expected them to come out of their corners and start throwing punches. She glanced over to Christopher and saw him taking it all in.
“Hey, now,” Ivory said. “This is a party. Now, get in there and eat that cheesecake.”
The tension eased as the group moved about, except for Chiv at the window, Roddy near the bookcase, and Damien in the kitchen door. These men had all loved Twyla—at least Pru assumed they did. But they had all given Twyla up in one way or another, hadn’t they? Chiv for his family, Roddy for his art, and Damien for his business. In her mind, Pru had drawn a straight line through Twyla’s relationships, but now realized she’d been wrong: it wasn’t so much a line as a triangle.
—
The party broke up not long after. Roddy left first, followed by the contingent for the District Line—Kit, Chiv, Iris, and Teddy. They first asked if Pru would like to accompany them. “No, thanks,” she said. “I’ll stay and help clean up.”
An hour later, they had the place back in shape and the dishes washed. Pru dried forks, lining them up in three rows on the kitchen table. Rosette changed the arrangement to two rows and then to one long row. She’d just reached out and nudged the handle of one fork a millimeter to the right when Damien said, in a quiet, gentle voice, “Rosie.” Rosette pulled her hand away.
Pru and Damien went for their coats at the same time. “Can I give you a lift?” he asked.
“Thanks, but I rang for a cab just a bit ago.” Lie—her way home had been arranged before the evening began. “It’s on the way—I’ll stand outside and wait,” Pru said. She called back to the kitchen, “See you tomorrow,” and heard the women reply the same before she and Damien stepped out.
The rain had let up. The evening, not quite warm, but no longer chilly, had a fresh spring scent to it, that mix of new green with a hint of flowers. Pru took a deep breath. Across the road, a black London taxi with its light out sat idling. “Here I am now,” she said. “Good night.”
The taxi made a U-turn and stopped in front of Pru, but she didn’t open the door until Damien had walked round the corner. When he had disappeared from sight, she got in and said, “Good evening. Upham Park Road, just off Chiswick High Road.”
“Yeah,” the cabbie replied, glancing at her in the mirror. “So I’ve heard.” He took off, and once they were well underway, Christopher got up from the floor of the cab and joined her on the seat, brushing himself off.
“No entity or person shall stand in the way of the Society’s mission to promote the native hill country landscape or in any way compromise the benefits of said plantings, and any hindrance thereof shall be pursued by the President or Executive Committee regardless of the consequences.”
Article 2, Section 3.5, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 19
Pru gave Christopher a sly smile. “Hello, Kit. Does Sonia know you’re here?”
He slipped an arm round her waist and pulled her closer. He put his mouth to her ear and murmured, “No one knows I’m here, Ms. Parke. Only you.”
“You’ll say nothing?” she breathed.
“I wouldn’t dare speak—I’ve felt the nip of that big yellow bill of hers, and I can tell you it isn’t pleasant.”
Pru snorted. “We did well, didn’t we? They don’t have a clue.”
“I’d say we carried it off—for now.”
Christopher was being generous with that “we.” She was the one unaccustomed to this subterfuge—he had admitted to her that he’d been undercover before. She wasn’t sure she liked knowing that; it made her nervous to think he had put himself in danger, regardless of the fact that those situations were in the past. Putting herself in danger never occurred to her—she was only a gardener.
“You almost caught me out,” she said. “With the wine bottles.”
“Did I?” he asked, eyes wide with innocence. “You must be prepared for anything.”
Be prepared—his Boy Scout motto. “I will do,” she said.
—
Inside their building, they met Mrs. Miller and Boris emerging from the lift.
“Good evening,” the older woman said as Boris yawned. “I’m glad the rain let up.”
“Out for a walk? Let me take him for you,” Christopher volunteered.
“Thank you, Christopher, but we don’t go far for last calls and I’ve a fine bodyguard with me. I can manage.”
“Tomorrow afternoon, Boris,” Pru said to the dog. “You and I will have a good long walk on the Common.”
With a half-bark, half-howl, Boris confirmed the appointment as the lift doors closed.
—
“Did you see the three of them—a standoff?” Pru asked as she and Christopher sat at the kitchen table over cups of tea. “Damien seems to think that Roddy caught Twyla on the rebound—maybe he thinks he caught her that way, too. On the rebound from Chiv.”
“Chiv’s not sold on MacWeeks, that’s obvious.”
“Roddy’s messed with Twyla’s design,” Pru agreed, nodding. “Has done or is trying to do. He wants to replace the old petrol pump with a fruit machine, if you can imagine that.”
“If Twyla objected, and MacWeeks saw her as an obstacle to fame and fortune, what would he do?”
Pru didn’t speak, trying to divine the answer from the steam rising above her mug of tea.
Christopher rested his elbows on the table. “Damien—or his company—has put up a great deal of money on this venture. Did he do it to try and get Twyla back? He might not like it if she rejected him. What about Chiv?”
“Poor Chiv. He’s really broken up about her death. I’m beginning to believe Twyla was the love of his life.”
“Remorse,” Christopher said. “Someone lashes out in the heat of the moment and regrets it later. It isn’t uncommon.”
“So you think this was a crime of passion?”
He drained his mug. “I think,” he said, standing and offering Pru his hand, “that we’ll leave it there for the moment.”
Chiv had asked Kit to go with Iris and Teddy to Hereford the following morning—a day trip to collect the first round of arbutus—as many as they could fit into the minivan. It would not put a dent in the number of plants that needed to be transported to London, but it would be a start. Pru had questioned Chiv about hiring actual delivery lorries, but at such a late date, she knew that even if they could find them, the cost would be exorbitant. Chiv had made a comment about the bloody budget and how he would be buggered if he asked Damien Woodford for another farthing, after which he dropped the subject—and so did she.
When Pru crawled into bed, Christopher pulled the covers over them and switched off the light.
“Pru,” he said after a moment.
“Mmm.”
“What about Twyla?”
“She’s quiet. I don’t think she’s gone, but she’s willing to give me space to see what we can learn.” She turned to him in the semidarkness. “You know what I mean, don’t you?” It wasn’t really Twyla, she knew that—it was the Twyla in her head.
“I do,” he said. “And that’s good. Sleep well.”
—
It was a day of rain, rocks, and mud—it was the morning letdown after an enjoyable evening. Christopher had left early and they’d agreed on no contact during the day—too easy for someone to notice a text, email, or call on a phone. The absence of Kit, Iris, and Teddy diminished their number and affected their spirits. None of the women seemed much interested in work, and everyone moved at a slug’s pace. Sweetie had apparently made up with Skippy and spent a lot of time under the Aussie tarp with him. “Welcome to Oz” looked nearly complete—Skippy could lounge as much as he liked.
The Bluebonnet Betrayal Page 12
