The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  No ARGS sweatshirt, no bluebonnet color in sight.

  “Thanks to all of you who have offered to work on the grammar school garden project. Our first work party is coming up—but don’t worry, I won’t let you forget you volunteered for this very important venture.”

  The President Speaks, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 21

  Boris and Mal—Pru at last introduced herself—had waited patiently for her near one of the paths. She kept a sharp eye out on the way back to the flat, but saw nothing—no one—of note. Boris and Pru returned to their separate abodes and Pru sat in her own kitchen over a cup of tea thinking about who might have been watching her from the shrubbery and why. How had that person learned where she lived? She thought hard, trying to recall every email with Ivory, every conversation with the women or the rest of the crew—had she ever mentioned anything other than a vague reference to Chiswick?

  Two hours later, by the time she poured herself a glass of wine, she saw the folly in her logic. If someone was trying to watch her without being seen, why wear the ARGS sweatshirt? Too easy to recognize. When you tailed someone, you needed to blend in, not stand out. That had been no stalker in the shrubbery, just someone passing by who happened to be wearing blue and had been startled by Boris’s outburst.

  —

  Christopher arrived home, and they decamped to a pizza place on Chiswick High Road, nabbing a table out on the pavement where their conversation could be lost in the general noise of the street.

  They ordered and started in on the wine before Pru began. She had neatly stacked up the information in her mind, awaiting their debriefing, but now the pile fell over and details came tumbling out in no particular order. When she finished, Christopher began asking questions.

  “Twyla was in contact with all three—Damien, Chiv, Roddy?”

  “Yes,” Pru said, nodding. “She had to be—arrangements for the application, the design, the plants. Renting the house for the women. Emails, phone calls.”

  “Did she see any one of them after she arrived?”

  Pru frowned, taking a moment to consider this as the server brought their pizzas. “No one has said, at least not to me. She might’ve seen Chiv that evening. That’s more a feeling than knowing—I haven’t asked outright. But I will—I will ask every one of them,” she said with resolve. “No more pussyfooting around.”

  Christopher laughed. “Pussyfooting?”

  She grinned. “Yes, you know—treading too carefully.”

  “There’s one I haven’t heard before.”

  “That’s because we haven’t worked as an investigating team before—sussing out the guilty party.” It gave her a thrill to say it, but a short-lived one—she saw the humor drain from Christopher’s face. “Two pairs of eyes and ears are better than one,” she continued earnestly. “And remember, I’m all you’ve got.”

  He grabbed her hands across the table. “Yes, you are all I’ve got. And I won’t do anything to jeopardize that even if it means you need to step away…”

  “No, I didn’t mean it that way.” Pru rushed to cut him off, thinking she’d better learn to quit while she was ahead. “I meant that we’re a good team and…and I know you’ve got my back.” She wrinkled her nose, knowing how silly that sounded, as if they were characters in a trite buddy movie.

  That ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “I’ve got more than your back,” he said, and winked.

  Good, she thought, watching him dive into his pizza with knife and fork. Disaster averted.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes before she picked up with Roddy’s accusations about Iris going after the young woman Annabelle Dawson. “An accident, according to Chiv—Iris didn’t see the woman.”

  Christopher’s eyebrows rose. “Were the police involved?”

  Pru shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “And we don’t know if they’ve mentioned the incident to French,” he said. “I’ll make a call and see if I can find out. So, Roddy believes if Iris suspected that Chiv and Twyla had started up again, she could have killed Twyla to stop it?”

  Those same thoughts had drifted through Pru’s mind that afternoon as she sat in the kitchen of the flat, alone. Were Twyla and Chiv not only former lovers who agreed to work together for this year’s Chelsea Flower Show, but also laying plans to reunite upon Twyla’s arrival? Pru waited and listened. She had thought perhaps Twyla might want to take advantage of the moment and defend herself against the allegation, but Twyla was silent.

  “Can you see that in Iris?” Christopher asked.

  “She’s possessive, but I don’t think I’ve been round her enough to know if she could be violent. You spent the day with her—what did you think?”

  “I didn’t spend the day with her—Teddy and I drove to Hereford. Iris stayed back, said she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “Iris didn’t go? She’s been here the whole day?”

  “Well, Ealing. Although she felt well enough by late this afternoon that she met us at the garden when we dropped off the plants.”

  The flash of blue in the shrubbery on the Common that afternoon began to take shape. The shape of a small person with gray braids. No mere passerby, it had been Iris. It was an easy stop on the District Line from Ealing to Sloane Square—get off the Tube, lurk behind the holly, get back on the Tube before you’re seen. Had Iris expected to find her in Chiv’s arms? Had she so little faith in her partner that any woman was a threat? And how did she even know where to find Pru?

  “Teddy,” she said, pulling herself away from those thoughts. No need to worry Christopher with silly suppositions. “Did you have a good long chat?”

  “We had a good long journey there and back again. He’s a pleasant lad, but not much of a conversationalist.”

  “Did you ask about that evening? Did Teddy know if Iris went out again?”

  “We talked around it. They’ve separate bedsits in their lodging, he and his parents, but next to each other. Teddy heard doors opening and closing, and both Iris and Chiv said good night to him, but not together. And so, we don’t know the whereabouts of either of them the rest of the evening.”

  “Chiv?” Pru asked. “Oh no, I don’t think that he could’ve done that to Twyla. You should see him when…” Christopher didn’t speak. He didn’t need to say a word—those brown eyes spoke for him. “Yes, all right,” she said. “Everyone’s a suspect.”

  “You and I are at another disadvantage,” Christopher said. Yes, another one—apart from the fact that they were conducting an investigation not sanctioned by the police. “We don’t know when she was killed. That evening, overnight, early in the morning?”

  Pru now believed Chiv had seen Twyla that evening. And who else had—Roddy? Damien? Rosette? Iris? Christopher was right. They needed to lay down a timetable, to find out who was where and when.

  Christopher poured out the last of the wine into their glasses. “We could only fit six plants in the back of the minivan, because they’re about seven feet tall, and we had to lay them on their sides.”

  “Six?” she asked, startled back into the moment. “It’ll take forever to get the plants up here that way. The wildflowers and grasses have got to be packed into the garden—Chiv said thirty plants per square meter. He’s probably growing twice that number just to be on the safe side.”

  “Something’s got to be done, and soon. It’s only a week.”

  All breath left Pru’s body as her hand flew to her mouth. Fear seized her heart in a vise grip. “A week?” she whispered. “A week until the judges and the queen and the gala.” She had known very well how much time they had, but circumstances had disengaged that part of her mind from reality. “We’ll never finish, it’s impossible.”

  “Hang on,” Christopher said. “A week is ages.” He caught her hand and held it tightly as he continued like a coach at halftime with the team down by a field goal until her spirits rose from flat on the ground to high e
nough to smile.

  —

  “Mal told me that you and Boris had quite a romp round the Common this afternoon. I hope my boy didn’t wear you out. After a squirrel, was he? It’s his favorite pastime.”

  Mrs. Miller and Boris were heading out for last call when Christopher and Pru arrived back in the lobby of the building.

  “I have a feeling the squirrel was enjoying it, too,” Pru said as the lift doors slid closed on them. “Squirrels are quick and small,” she added to Christopher. “I don’t think it was in any danger.” How quick was Iris? she wondered.

  —

  Early Sunday morning, Chiv rang to tell her to take the day off.

  Pru sat up in bed. “We can’t do that. We’ve got a week. There’s work to be done.”

  “There’s nothing to be done today. We don’t have the new liner yet, and we can’t test the pump until we do. I’ll get a bit done on the wall this afternoon, and Iris and Teddy have already left for Hereford to bring up another load of arbutus. I rang Ivory to tell them, but I don’t have a number for Kit.”

  Pru looked at Christopher stretched out beside her, arm behind his head on the pillow. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I didn’t give that to you. I’ll let him know.”

  “A day off is just what everyone needs,” Christopher said when she’d finished the phone conversation. “Let Chiv sort out a few problems—he’s the contractor, it’s his job.”

  “Mmm,” Pru replied, resting her chin on her drawn-up knee.

  Christopher got out of bed. “Stay there,” he said. He pulled on trousers and a sweater, sticking his bare feet into shoes and grabbing his wallet.

  “Why? Where are you going?” she asked. “I should get up.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “Don’t move. I’ll be back in two ticks.”

  “Yes, sir.” She flopped back against the pillow and pulled the sheet up to her nose.

  He was more than two ticks, but she stayed put, in her mind typing up a list of suspects, from most likely to least. Names in bold at the top: Iris, Roddy. Names not in bold but she felt there was more to learn about: Damien, Rosette. Everyone else followed, but in a fading type, difficult to read.

  She had drifted off to sleep again when Christopher returned. He had two flat white coffees—hers topped up with extra milk—croissants, and all the Sunday papers. They spent the rest of the morning in bed, reading glasses propped on the bridges of their noses. Christopher made certain that their idle conversation kept far away from the subject of the Chelsea Flower Show.

  And yet, as the morning went on, it seemed to Pru that with every turning of a page, the air was disturbed, creating a tiny current that stirred into a breeze that curled round over their heads and out the bedroom door, down the hall and into the kitchen where it whispered to her: “It isn’t enough to wait around.” It didn’t frighten Pru, and she was grateful Twyla didn’t actually come into the bedroom, but it did make it difficult for her to stay still any longer.

  She stretched and brushed flakes of pastry off her T-shirt. “That was lovely.” She leaned over to give Christopher a kiss on the cheek. “I think I’ll go over to the Lamont Road house and see how the women are.” Christopher took his glasses off, the better to narrow his eyes at her. “Just to check in,” she continued. “I still feel responsible for them, you know, and they might be at loose ends given the day off.” She snuggled closer. “Sorry you can’t go along, Kit.”

  “Thanks to Sweetie and her phenomenal fund-raising abilities, we have met our speakers’ fund goal for the year. We are known for the high caliber of our speakers, and next season won’t be any different. Remember, every member can make a difference. Cheers, Sweetie!”

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

  Chapter 22

  Ivory answered the door with a laptop in one hand. “Come on in, honey. I’m just trying to catch up on some work.”

  “I don’t want to disturb you,” Pru said.

  “You aren’t disturbing anything,” Ivory said as she headed upstairs. “Rosette’s in the kitchen, why don’t you go on in there? I’m almost finished.”

  Pru wandered through the sitting room, and stuck her head in the kitchen before letting the rest of her body follow. Was it KayAnn who had said Rosette could be a bit scary? Pru agreed. She needed time alone with Rosette—whose name appeared on her suspect list, not in bold, but dark enough to read.

  “Hello.”

  Rosette looked up. “She said there was something wrong here,” she said.

  Pru looked at the papers laid out on the table and saw that they were drawings of the garden—the plan view, as seen from above, as well as the elevations, how it was viewed at eye level. Rosette had unrolled them and weighted the corners with mugs. The colors jumped off the page, a familiar mix of blue, red, gold, and mahogany that plucked at Pru’s heartstrings. At the bottom of the drawings, written in block letters: MORE THAN ROCK AND STONE, AUSTIN ROCK GARDEN SOCIETY, CHELSEA FLOWER SHOW, RODDY MACWEEKS, DESIGNER. Under that, in smaller letters: TWYLA WOODFORD, ASST.

  “Ivory sent copies to me—at least I think they’re the same. What’s wrong with them?” Apart from Roddy’s name, that is.

  Rosette shook her head. “No, it’s fine here on paper, but there was something bothering Twyla just before we came. The garden, the plants—I don’t know what.” She took off her glasses and folded them up. Picking up a pencil, she placed the tip on a notepad, held it there for a moment, and then began a doodle.

  “Something wrong with a person, maybe?”

  “ ‘I want you to take a look,’ she said, but then she decided no, never mind. ‘We’ll get it sorted out when I get there. I don’t want you to worry.’ Those were her words.” Rosette kept her eyes on the notepad. “Code words—she meant she couldn’t trust me to hold it together.”

  “You and Twyla have known each other a long time, haven’t you?”

  Rosette had drawn a triangle to begin with, and had expanded it into an intricate drawing that looked like a geodesic dome. She paused in the process and seemed about to speak, but stopped when they heard Ivory.

  “I’m starving!” Ivory exclaimed as she made a beeline for the fridge. “What have we got?”

  “Quiche,” Rosette said.

  Ivory sighed. “I sure could use some chicken-fried steak about now.”

  —

  Pru stayed for quiche. She laid the table, and Rosette followed behind, adjusting the forks to line up with the prime meridian or something, Pru didn’t know what. She searched for a way to find out more from these women—what did Rosette think Twyla had and did it concern Roddy or Rosette herself? But this was lunch, not an interrogation.

  Ivory stuck the quiche in the oven and asked, “What would you like to drink?”

  “A cup of tea would be nice,” Pru said. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

  “Tea making is Rosette’s forte,” Ivory said.

  “No,” Rosette replied, “Pru can make it.”

  Ivory’s eyebrows rose. “You must know the secret method—Rosette and Twyla are the only two allowed to get near the teapot at meetings.”

  Over lunch they talked and talked. Pru told stories of her family in hopes that it would loosen a nugget or two from Rosette. But, whereas Ivory freely bragged about her sons—their girlfriends, their GPAs, their college outlook—all Pru learned of Rosette was that she had a PhD in plant physiology and that she got her name because both her parents had been botanists. And Ivory was the one who told Pru that much.

  “Is there any of that cheesecake left?” Ivory asked. She opened the fridge and bent over, shuffling containers round. “I don’t see how y’all can live with these tiny little things—this is about the size of the refrigerator we had in our dorm room.”

  “No cheesecake for me, thanks,” Pru said. “Do you have a number for Damien? I need to ring him about getting our plants up here.”

  “Yeah, let me get my phone,” Ivory said. While she did th
at, Pru went to the loo, and when she came out, she could hear Ivory and Rosette in the kitchen.

  “Rosette, just tell her.”

  “It’s none of her business. It isn’t anyone’s business. It’s enough I had to tell the police.”

  “Well,” Pru said, making them both jump when she stepped into the room. She waited a moment, giving Rosette the opportunity to tell her even if it wasn’t her business, but neither woman spoke. “That’s me away. Where have the others got to this afternoon?”

  “The girls are shopping,” Ivory told Pru as she handed over a slip of paper with Damien’s number on it. “Harrods. And Sweetie went over to the garden. She said Chiv was going to work on the wall and she wanted to help.”

  Chiv and Sweetie at the garden. Alone? What would Iris think when she and Teddy arrived with the plants? Well, that took care of the rest of Pru’s afternoon. She would drop by the grounds—she had no problem acting the gooseberry between Chiv and Sweetie if it kept Iris from leaping to conclusions.

  But first she stood in the sunshine on the front step of the Lamont Road house and rang Damien. If GlobalSynergy had already put out a few hundred thousand pounds for the garden, what would one or two thousand more be?

  He answered with “Woodford.” Pru could hear shouting and whistles in the background. Interrupting his soccer match, most likely.

  “It’s Pru Parke. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Sunday afternoon, but I feel like I should let you know that progress at the garden has slowed considerably with all that’s happened.” Damien said nothing, and so Pru rushed through explaining about the lorries needed and the budget and she was in no position to ask for more money, but if Damien could see fit to…Finally, she wrapped it up with, “Are you still there?”

  “It’s damned MacWeeks demanding such a sky-high fee—ridiculous that she would give in to him. And why are you the one to beg? Chiv lost his nerve, has he?”

  “I’m not begging; this is a reasonable request. I haven’t seen the budget and I don’t know how much Roddy is making. And I’m also unaware of the sort of financial arrangements you and Twyla had.” The subject of money could be tricky between ex-spouses. Pru wondered if his hostility concerned the garden budget or did it hearken back to the divorce settlement between the two. Perhaps that was the thorn in his side, irritating him more than hiring a couple of delivery lorries.