The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  Chiv saw her scanning the group. “Those two have scarpered again.” Those two no doubt meant KayAnn and Nell.

  “Have you found any lorries?” Pru asked.

  “I’ve left a message for a fellow. I’m waiting to hear. He’s not the cheapest I found, mind you,” Chiv said, his impish smile showing, “but I figure Woodford can bear it.”

  Good, let’s irritate the sponsor.

  Behind her, Pru heard Ivory say, “Oh now, Sweetie, it’s just that Rosette doesn’t want you to get yourself hurt, that’s all.”

  Pru turned to see the entire crew—sans KayAnn and Nell—watching as the crane next door lifted Skippy higher and higher to the tip-top of the metal structure for the Aussie garden—it would represent their mountain, he had said, and they were now covering it with plants. Sweetie looked glum. “It’s a safety issue,” Rosette informed Sweetie. “You can’t go flying around up there just to impress him.”

  “That’s tame, isn’t it, Ms. Parke?” Forde asked, looking up at Skippy. “When you compare it with that massive roller coaster at that place you have in Texas, Six Flags. Have you been on that roller coaster? I went there with my host family—it was brilliant.”

  “I love that one,” Sweetie said, tossing Rosette a look. “The taller, the better.”

  “The Big One at Blackpool,” Teddy said, and sneezed again. “It’s almost seventy-two meters high.”

  “That’s nothing,” Roddy said. “I’ve a design for a tower at a garden in Surrey that tops that.”

  Pru shuddered. She recalled a disastrous roller-coaster ride the year she was eight and her parents had taken her to Six Flags Over Texas—a time when the roller coasters weren’t nearly as high or as fast as today. She had sat next to her dad—her mum watching from the ground—and after the first, slow, ratcheting climb to a terrifying height, she had hidden her head under his jacket and cried until the horrific event had ended. It had been her introduction to the disorienting fear of heights that could still paralyze her. Only after resting on a bench—and, she seemed to recall, a restorative ice-cream cone—had she recovered enough to be taken on the steam-engine tour round the park.

  “That isn’t for me,” she confessed, turning away from the image of Skippy dangling fifty feet in the air. “So, are we on break?” she asked. “Great, I can have a word with Rosette. Rosette?” Pru called over. “Do you have a minute?”

  Rosette moved quickly to the small pit that would be the reservoir. “Can it wait until later? Ivory and I are supposed to be laying the edging stones.”

  “Sure, of course,” Pru said with enthusiasm, hoping to put Rosette at ease. “Let’s talk over lunch.” Perhaps she shouldn’t have put it on the schedule like that—Pru got the feeling that Rosette knew the jig was up, that Pru had figured out the sibling connection and she might just find somewhere else to be at lunch. Yes, I know—it’s a notion, Pru said to her internal Christopher.

  “Iris,” Chiv said. “Kit’s in the pavilion with the boards for the shed, and I’d say he could use some help. Pru, you and I can get to work on the wall with Sweetie.”

  “I’ll start on the wall with Pru and Sweetie,” Iris said. “Why don’t you go work with Kit?”

  “I’m not leaving off the wall,” Chiv said.

  “I’ll go help Kit,” Pru cut in. She found Christopher on his knees just inside the pavilion, the wide pine boards laid out in a row on the grass. He had a brush barely damp with red paint in hand. He ran it the length of the board, after which he wiped off as much as possible, so that only a suggestion of old color would remain. “Good morning, Kit.”

  His eyes cut round the area and behind her and then he winked. “Morning, Pru.”

  “That’s coming along well. Weathered pine boards—it’ll look perfect.”

  “Have you pine trees in Texas?”

  “Yes—mostly loblolly pines that grow in east Texas. Well,” she said, leaning over, “I’ve come to lend you a hand.” Without thinking, she reached down and patted his bottom.

  “Hey.” Ivory had appeared behind them.

  Pru jumped as if she’d been stuck with a cattle prod. “Ivory,” she said, her face aflame.

  Ivory smiled. “Chiv said to come fetch y’all. Roddy has some sort of an announcement.”

  “Oh, great, yes, fine,” Pru said. “Well, Kit, looks like we’ll have to get back to these boards later.”

  As Pru left, she heard Ivory ask, “Kit, how’s it going in here?”

  “Grand,” Kit replied.

  “The symbol of the Society shall be the bluebonnet.”

  Article 1, Section 2, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 25

  Roddy looked like a new man from Saturday—clean, unrumpled clothes, a smile on his face, confidence in his step. He ran his hand through his hair and straightened the cuffs of his flannel shirt all the while keeping a long roll of paper secured under one arm. He came to her, and Pru felt conciliation emanating from him. “Good morning, how are you? Look, I’m quite sorry about the other day, Pru. Events, you know, I let them catch me up.”

  “That’s all right, Roddy. I understand. But thanks.” It was the least she could do, accept what appeared to be a sincere apology. “I’m glad to see you here today, we’ve loads of work to do, and everyone will be delighted to have you pitch in.”

  “Right, well.” He spread his arms to the gathering group. “Could I have a word with everyone?”

  Forde answered with an enormous sneeze.

  Roddy gave him a sideways look before continuing. “I’ve come round, you see, to advise you all of a few ever-so-minor changes to the design that I know Twyla would’ve approved of if she’d had the chance to see them. But as she hasn’t, we will proceed as I see fit.” He straightened his shoulders.

  “What changes?” Pru asked.

  “We’re not having that fruit machine or whatever you call it,” Rosette said at Roddy’s elbow.

  Roddy shrank away from Rosette, circled behind the group, and stood by a full pallet of stone, a preacher at the pulpit.

  “I know you all join with me in mourning the loss of Twyla,” he said. No one responded. Ivory and Rosette frowned, and Forde stuck his hands in the pockets of his ARGS sweatshirt. Chiv carried a trowel, and Pru could see him turning it round and round in the palm of his hand, each turn followed by a squeeze.

  “But we must go on, as you”—he gestured to Ivory, as if he couldn’t quite recall her name—“so ably put it to us.”

  Roddy continued for another few minutes with unintelligible but smooth-sounding words, something about “Twyla’s vision as a touchstone,” and “each one of you representing a unique force in the development of contemporary art,” and “the quality of light.” Pru soon lost track, and she could see the crowd dividing between boredom and impatience. But everyone came to attention when Roddy said, “And so, I want to share with you these adjustments, and to that end, I’ve brought along the corrected plans. Chiv, of course, has been aware of these changes from the start and has made the appropriate accommodations.”

  “Stop yapping and show them,” Chiv grumbled.

  Roddy held up the roll of paper and—with a flourish as good as any herald making a royal pronouncement—unfurled it. “If you would,” he said to Sweetie and Ivory, who held the ends of the scroll, using the pallet as a tabletop. All heads bent to take a look. For a moment, there was silence.

  But only for a moment. After which, heads jerked up and faces turned hard.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “Why does it say ‘Blue on Blue’? That’s not the name of the garden.”

  “Where’s Twyla’s name?”

  “Those aren’t bluebonnets.”

  Roddy had stepped back, whether to secure a safe getaway or be ready to defend his work, Pru wasn’t sure. The last comment had been from Forde, and MacWeeks seized on it first.

  “Indeed, Forde. I’ve chosen to create a softer atmosphere with a sea of blue provided by a
monoculture planting of Nigella damascena. You know it, don’t you—the little flower love-in-a-mist? The fine texture and muted tones will be a visually sensual, undulating landscape with a hint of a secret to its depths, where—”

  He got no further before Ivory shouted, “That”—she pointed at the plans—“is not Texas. You can talk about sensual undulating whatever for as long as you want, but that is not our garden and we are not building it.”

  “We all have a commitment to produce the best display possible,” Roddy said. “I, as the designer, have the final say in any matter.”

  The Austin women were forming a circle round Roddy. Out of the corner of her eye, Pru noticed Christopher edging closer, poised to intervene.

  Rosette took a step toward Roddy and he took a step back, bumping into Ivory. “This was Twyla’s dream, not yours,” Rosette said in a quiet voice that menaced far better than a shout. “How far do you think you’ll get with us against you?”

  Sweetie stuck a finger in his face. “You try to pull this off and you’ll see. You don’t mess with Texas.”

  “Nonsense,” Roddy said, his face red and his arms in front of him as if ready to ward off a blow. “I will not yield to threats and intimidation. I’m the designer of this garden.”

  Pru didn’t join the circle, although anger stirred in her. What did Roddy care for Twyla, her vision, or for that matter, her life? Those had been crocodile tears he’d shed on Saturday. Pretend remorse, but actually relief that he could now do as he pleased with this opportunity to advance his career.

  Forde hadn’t joined in the confrontation, but his face was flushed and he jabbed a finger at the plans. “This is wrong. The bluebonnets are key—the bluebonnets will win the day for me. You don’t understand what’s at stake.”

  “I know perfectly well what’s at stake, Forde,” Roddy said, grabbing the plans and rolling them up. “And it’s already done. They’ve the copy for the show program, leaflets are being printed as we speak. There’s no going back now—I’ve got my name to protect.”

  “I don’t care what you want to protect,” Forde said. “Ms. Woodford was quite clear about this. She supported me.”

  “We’ll continue this discussion at another time,” Roddy told him. “Chiv, I take it you’ll impress upon everyone that failure to build this garden would not only reflect badly on me, but it would adversely affect your own livelihood—the well-being of your business and your family.”

  “Get out, MacWeeks” was Chiv’s reply.

  Roddy strode off with purpose, his smooth exit spoiled by Main Avenue being taped off for Skippy in his crane next door at the Aussie garden. Pru looked up at Skippy as he watched Roddy, but after only a second she looked away, her eyes instead following the designer as he skirted the detour and headed up Eastern Avenue instead. She went after him.

  “This is a really bad idea,” she said when she’d caught up. He didn’t stop, and so Pru hurried to stay abreast. “Why in the world would you want to change from bluebonnets—that’s the entire reason for the garden, the ecology and landscape of the Texas hill country.”

  “Garish color, totally wrong for a Chelsea garden this year. We must look at trends, Pru, it’s as important in the garden as it is in the world of fashion.”

  “Where were you the night Twyla was here in the garden?”

  He threw her a look. “I was at an opening in Hackney. Went quite late, as it turned out—well into the early hours.”

  “And you didn’t see her or talk with her?”

  “I’ve told the police where I was—I’m sure they’ve checked it out. What does it matter to you?”

  “I thought you might care enough about her to be concerned.”

  He stopped abruptly just before they reached the gate and turned on her. “Don’t you say that,” he said. “Don’t tell me I didn’t care—I loved her. She understood me better than anyone. I don’t have to take this abuse.” He stalked off, bumping into a fellow carrying a stack of boxes, which tumbled to the ground, spilling hats onto the roadway.

  “Oi!” the fellow called. Roddy ignored him.

  Pru had half a mind to chase him down, but at that moment off to her right, she heard a pair of tiny sneezes—chew! chew! Not much of a sound, but even sneezes can have accents, and these were decidedly Texan. She followed her ear down the hill and came up behind her culprits.

  “What’s going on?”

  They squealed. Nell dropped her opera glasses and whatever KayAnn had been holding flew out of her hand and landed under the wheels of a flatbed trolley. She dropped to her knees and crawled over to retrieve it.

  “Hi, Pru.” She stood, brushed dirt off her trousers, and put her hand behind her back. “We were on our way back to work. We just came up here, because I wanted to pick up one of those cute keychains that has a little guy in the red coat from that shop by the gate, and so—”

  “No,” Pru interrupted, shaking her head. “Too late for that. Why are you always somewhere else instead of in the garden? What are you looking for? And what’s that you’re trying to hide?” The two women, silent but fidgety, exchanged glances. “I’m not giving up this time—I’ll wait here all day if I have to.” Pru realized she had just channeled her mother, but there was no turning back on the clichés now.

  “Nell,” KayAnn said. “We really should.”

  “Nooo, I’ll sound so stupid.” Nell scrunched her eyes closed and sighed dramatically. “Oh, all right, go ahead.”

  “We’re watching out for Harry,” KayAnn whispered. She brought her arm round and held out an open hand to reveal an action figure about five inches high—the kind you’d find of Superman or Darth Vader or Dumbledore. Except this one was…

  “Prince Harry?” Pru asked.

  “Yeah,” KayAnn said, nodding. She continued in a low voice, as if royal spies might be lurking behind the souvenir stand. “Because of the garden he sponsors—the one for the African charity. We know he’ll be here for the big party the day before the show opens, but we thought he might stop by occasionally to check on how it’s going. We thought we might be able to introduce him to Nell.”

  Nell’s brown face had turned a deep red and she wouldn’t look Pru in the eye. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said, “but he seems like such a great guy, and you have no idea how hard it is to meet someone these days.”

  “Nell’s been on austincouplesconnect.com for ages and she’s met some real losers,” KayAnn said, shaking her head.

  “Isn’t Prince Harry a bit younger than you?” Pru asked, ignoring the total impossibility of the situation and instead choosing an approach they might understand.

  “Four years younger,” Nell said. “Only four. That’s nothing when you reach our age.”

  “And it isn’t like it couldn’t happen,” KayAnn added. “They marry commoners now, it’s okay. Look at Will and Kate. And think what a diplomatic coup it would be for him to marry an American.”

  It wasn’t as if US and British relations were on the rocks and the countries needed an international romantic incident to bring them together again. But Pru didn’t have the heart to mention that. She pursed her lips to keep a smile from breaking out. “Well, yes, I see your point, but I just don’t think…”

  “We aren’t stalking him or anything—we haven’t even seen him yet,” KayAnn said hurriedly. “You won’t get us in trouble, will you, Pru? You won’t tell that policeman?”

  “What policeman?” Pru asked.

  “That one that came when Twyla died,” Nell said, nodding behind Pru. “He just walked by up there.”

  “Road trip! On page three, KayAnn and Nell report on their weekend cleanup effort along Highway 290 outside of Brenham to promote the monarch butterfly restoration habitat program. They also mention their tour of the Blue Bell Ice Cream Factory.”

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

  Chapter 26

  Pru whirled round and caught a glimpse up the incline of DCI French on Easte
rn Avenue. A lorry unloading metal framework for the vendors’ stalls had blocked his way, and he stood, checking his phone while he waited. Pru cursed and ran.

  She took the path that drew her down farther into Ranelagh Gardens—a longer route, but the winding walkways would eventually take her to the same destination as she was sure French had: the ARGS garden. She must warn Christopher, but she couldn’t trust that he’d hear his phone ring in all the construction racket. If she was quick and traffic on French’s route remained heavy, she could beat him to the site.

  Pru was not a sprinter, yet for the second time in as many days, she found herself tearing at top speed—the first time, her arm being pulled out of its socket by Boris chasing a squirrel, and now, in a heat to beat DCI French before he discovered Christopher exactly where he shouldn’t be and who he shouldn’t be—in disguise as Kit Morrison, casual laborer. How would that look to the police? And how would it look to the rest of the crew who had no idea Christopher was on a case? Unofficially.

  But steel-toed boots are not running shoes. Her path was long and circuitous, people and carts of goods got in her way, and when she veered off into the lawn, the uneven ground kept catching her. At last, with heavy feet, she climbed up to the avenue from the south end of the meadow, gasping for air. Hesitating only a moment to check for French—she thought she spotted him just behind a lorry barely five seconds away—she found one last ounce of energy and made a dash for it.

  Christopher had his back to her as he worked on attaching boards to the shed. Closer to her, Skippy had come down from his mountaintop. She made for the Aussie, attempted to hop over the curb, but tripped and fell straight into him.

  He saved her from hitting the ground, picked her up and said, “What’s your hurry?”

  “Help me,” she croaked, clenching the collar of his shirt. Christopher must’ve heard her, for he turned as she ran the few steps to him.