The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

“I’m unclear on the reason for this meeting in a pub. Do you both have something to tell me, some piece of evidence you’ve withheld?” Impatience—at least that’s what it looked like to Pru—emanated from him like a cloying aftershave.

  Roddy sat down and didn’t speak. Pru threw him a look.

  “Something happened to Roddy at the garden site only a few minutes ago—just as I arrived. We don’t know if it has to do with the case, but he knew he needed to tell you about it.”

  “And so, Ms. Parke, you’ve escorted Mr. MacWeeks here—to make sure he arrived safely?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Pru said, undaunted by his tone.

  “I say,” Roddy protested.

  “Well, you’ve fulfilled your duty. You may go, and I’ll have a word with Mr. MacWeeks—especially as I’ve been trying to get hold of him since yesterday.”

  Roddy’s eyes widened. “No, I want Pru to stay.”

  “Of course I’ll stay.”

  “You are not a part of this investigation, Ms. Parke,” French reminded her. “I thought I made that clear.”

  That’s when she saw it—the uncertainty in his eyes despite the officiousness in his voice. He had nothing. He had no ideas and no proof and he didn’t want her to know, because that meant that Christopher would learn of it, and French wanted desperately to prove himself to his mentor. She felt sorry for the DCI—but not sorry enough to leave.

  “Yes, you made that clear. But I don’t see the harm in this—unless you don’t want me here because I’m a suspect.” She waited for the “everyone’s a suspect” line, but it didn’t come. Good, she’d passed that test. “Why don’t I get us drinks while Roddy tells you what happened?”

  Roddy perked up at that offer. “Yes, Pru, that would be lovely.”

  French sighed. “All right, thank you. I’ll have soda water, please. With ice.”

  “Right, three soda waters,” Pru said. Roddy slumped against the wall.

  By the time Pru returned to the table with the free fizzy water and three packets of crisps, just so the woman at the bar wouldn’t think they were too cheap, French had a hard look on his face.

  “And you saw no one? Ms. Parke—what about you?”

  Pru sat next to Roddy and told her tale—the garden looked empty, she walked to the back, heard a noise, called out, and—“I might’ve seen someone running off, someone wearing the color of our sweatshirts. The hood pulled up.”

  No amount of digging on French’s part produced any other details. “The person ran up one of the roadways?” he asked at last.

  “No, he was off the other side of the Australian garden, perhaps heading toward the exit where the lorries come in—the one at the Chelsea Bridge Road. We don’t use it—most people come in either the Bull Ring or the London gate.”

  French rubbed his face but couldn’t rub off the annoyance.

  “We’ll ask for camera footage, but CCTV doesn’t cover enough of the area,” French was saying. “I’ll send uniforms over now to search the grounds. Expect to see them patrolling tomorrow, too.”

  Here’s a downside to Roddy spilling his story, Pru realized. Uniforms wandering the grounds tomorrow when Kit returns. Would French drop by again as well?

  “And now, Mr. MacWeeks,” the DCI continued, “I have a question for you.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Roddy took a sip of his soda water, then pushed the glass away. “This could’ve been one of those Texas women. Now that I think about it, it’s quite possible. They are out of control, Inspector, you’ve got to keep them away from me. All I did was make a few necessary changes to the design, and this is what I get.” He pointed to the red mark on his cheek, his glasses, and the missing temple.

  “A few changes?” Pru’s voice shot up an octave. “You’ve ruined what Twyla created and what we should be building. A fruit machine? Nigella instead of bluebonnets? You’re the one who’s mad if you think that’s going to happen.” She felt French studying her. She took a deep breath and held it for a moment before exhaling slowly.

  “I assure you, Mr. MacWeeks,” the inspector said, turning his gaze away from Pru, “we are looking into everyone’s whereabouts. Which brings me to this—we are having difficulty verifying your movements for the evening Ms. Woodford died.”

  Pru leapt onto French’s statement. “She was killed in the evening—not the next morning? Do you have a time?”

  French took a moment to draw out his notebook and pen, as if deciding whether or not to let her in on even this much. At last, he gave a single nod before saying, “Sometime between nine o’clock and midnight.”

  Roddy grabbed a packet of crisps and tore it open, scattering the contents on the table. “As I’ve explained more than once, Inspector, I spent the evening at a gallery opening in Hackney.”

  “We cannot find any sign of you at this gallery opening—no witness who saw you before ten-thirty that evening.”

  “Traffic was dreadful,” Roddy mumbled, his mouth full of crisps.

  “Did you drive?”

  “I took a cab.”

  “Then we will check with London cabs to verify that.”

  “A minicab, not a black cab.”

  “Minicabs are licensed, Mr. MacWeeks,” French said. “They will have records of their journeys.”

  “Do you know,” Roddy said, concentrating on sweeping up the rest of the crisps, forming them into a tiny potato-chip mountain, “I don’t believe he had a license. Dreadful business, that—unlicensed minicabs. London is rife with them.”

  “You were wearing your Austin Rocks sweatshirt that day, weren’t you, Roddy?” Pru smiled at him just to let him know she was on his side. She sensed French cut his eyes at her.

  “Yes, you’re right, Pru,” Roddy said. “I was wearing it that day. Bit garish, but I do try to be a team player.”

  “And so you have no one to substantiate your whereabouts until ten-thirty that evening, is that correct?” French’s pen remained poised over his notebook.

  “You mean apart from the entire city of London? Track them down, Inspector—the journey from my flat in Maida Vale to Hackney takes me nowhere near Chelsea.”

  —

  French got nothing else out of Roddy, and stepped away to the bar to make a call. Roddy leaned toward Pru and said, “You saved my life, Pru—twice. Once from whoever it was that attacked me, and once by letting me keep my reputation. I owe you. I’ll remember that.”

  “Right, Mr. MacWeeks,” French said. “I’ve a car waiting and we’ll give you a lift home—unless you want to be seen by a doctor?”

  Roddy shook that off, and when French’s phone buzzed, they both left.

  Pru stood at the bar as the door closed.

  “Anything else?” the woman behind the bar asked.

  Pru checked her watch—four o’clock. She looked back at the table with two unopened packets of crisps. “I’ll have a glass of red wine. Make it a large one.”

  She had just settled again at the table and raised the glass to her lips when French walked back in. He stopped short of the table, as if unsure of his reception.

  “Hello again,” she said. “Did you forget something?”

  “I thought I might have another word with you.” His hesitation surprised Pru.

  “Of course—please join me.” She tried to sound welcoming, although at that moment she would so much rather be left alone to sort through the day, put things in their proper places, see what—or who—stood out.

  “Yes, thanks,” French said. “I’ll just…” He nodded to the bar and came back a couple of minutes later with a pint of Bombardier.

  Things, Pru thought, were getting interesting.

  “We will be planting up the public containers along North Congress Avenue this weekend. Please keep track of your whereabouts and report in hourly.”

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

  Chapter 30

  French took a long drink of his beer, set the glass down, and sighed
.

  Pru glanced toward the door of the pub. “Are you waiting for Sergeant Chalk?”

  “I’ve put Chalk on another case for the time being—we’re a bit stretched at the moment.” He glanced up, as if waiting for her to point out the obvious, that help was near at hand if only he would ask. She held her tongue. “Ms. Parke, did you ask Mr. MacWeeks about wearing his sweatshirt because you think it was him you saw the evening Ms. Woodford was killed?”

  “I saw someone in the bluebonnet color, but I can’t say it was Roddy. The thing is, he wasn’t at the garden at all that day, and yet just now, he agreed with me that he had been there. Seems like it’s a day that everyone would remember—where they were, what they were doing. It’s odd.”

  They sat silent for a time, until French asked, “I hope I’m not disturbing you—are you expecting someone?”

  “No, it’s just that this is a pleasant and dark little pub—just the place to sit and think.” And dare to ask a few questions of her own. “Inspector French, what evidence do you have? Anything from the scene—fingerprints or witnesses or an odd comment from someone?”

  French took another long pull on his pint and then, instead of telling her to keep her nose out of it, he shook his head. “Everyone involved in the garden was elsewhere that evening. And no one has a bad word to say about Ms. Woodford.”

  “No one?” Pru had heard a few. “You know about Twyla and Roddy—all those years ago?”

  “Yes, we do. And Mr. Chiverton. And, of course, her marriage to Mr. Woodford. All those concerned offered their alibis freely. Mr. Chiverton is uncertain from which Tube station he returned—he bought a ticket with cash and has no record. His partner, Ms. Bright, cannot remember in which café she stopped for coffee. Their son was in his own room. He cannot confirm either parent’s return time.”

  Pru kept her face neutral—at least she hoped she did. Here was French handing over each suspect’s details. She needed to absorb it all, in order to relay the information to Christopher, but her mind got caught on a snag—Chiv. He did remember which Tube station, because he had told Pru only that day. It was Turnham Green, her own stop—although that fact had whizzed past her at the time. Why had he been vague with French?

  But hadn’t Pru been vague herself—with mentioning where she lived? At some point during buildup, she must’ve mentioned aloud which stop on the District Line was hers—not only to Chiv and Iris, but the others, too. Her mind flew back to the flash of bluebonnet she’d seen while with Boris on the Common. She’d been quick to finger Iris for that, but now she realized any one of them could’ve staked out the entrance to the Turnham Green Underground station. Her heart sank.

  French continued going down the list of suspects. “Mr. Woodford at an evening conference in the city—the company quickly sent us the film from that event. Mr. Thomas Forde returning from Newcastle, ticket provided, also paid for in cash. I’ve put someone on the CCTV at King’s Cross station to locate him.” A massive, busy station—there’s an assignment Pru wouldn’t want. “The women from Austin at the theater together. Mr. MacWeeks, at his opening.”

  So they all say. But if everyone else’s alibi was as shaky as Chiv’s and Iris’s, then what did that tell them about suspects? That the list was still long.

  “Ms. Finkel was not at the theater,” French added, “but Mr. Woolverton provided her alibi.”

  “Mr. Woolverton?” Pru pictured some tweedy old fellow with a pipe.

  “Melursh Woolverton—the Australian gardener.”

  Pru’s burst of laughter caught the attention of the rest of the people in the pub, who smiled at her and went back to their business. Her laughter fell off into a giggle before she could say, “Melursh Woolverton—won’t Sweetie love that?”

  A faint smile crossed French’s face but then vanished.

  Pru leaned back into the corner of the settle and put a leg up on the bench. She studied French as he studied his glass.

  “You’re being quite free with your information after telling me to mind my own business,” Pru remarked.

  A momentary glint appeared in his eyes. “That isn’t exactly how I put it. And regardless, it’s nothing you don’t already know, I’m certain of that.”

  She sat straight up. “Are you saying I’m meddling in your case?”

  “I am aware of the fact that all these people talk to you. They look to you for advice and help. Why is that?”

  “Oh.” She relaxed again against the back of the settle. “I don’t know. It’s probably because I was their liaison before Twyla arrived—a sort of bridge between Texas and England, because I know both worlds. Twyla was to take over when she got here, and I was going to be just one of the crew, but…now I’m the one left and so they continue to think I’ve got some sort of power. It’s silly, I know.”

  French moved his glass off the beer mat and back on. “Is Mr. Pearse still in London?”

  Pru took a slow sip of her wine in order to consider this question. He had asked it in an offhanded way, as if only being polite, but that didn’t fool her—she could see the strain and tension in his face. And the fatigue. She didn’t think French had seen Christopher/Kit on-site that morning, and so she believed she knew what he needed—to lean on Christopher’s experience and keen eye for clues and his subtle ways with suspects that got more out of them than they realized. French continued to shift his glass round without looking at her. Pru shouldn’t let him squirm—the question had taken a lot out of him, she could tell. But then she thought back to the morning of finding Twyla’s body, and how officious and cool he had been, warning both her and Christopher to keep away from his case. Well, perhaps French could squirm a bit.

  “Yes, he is,” she said. “Well, not at the moment—he’s away tonight, but he’ll be back tomorrow. Why do you ask?” It was a polite question, asked with as much innocence as she could muster.

  French shrugged. “No reason, really. Only, I thought we hadn’t had a chance for a talk yet, and if he wasn’t busy, we might…” He frowned into his beer.

  Poor sausage, exhausted and worried. All right, enough squirming.

  “I’m sure he’d love to chat with you. Shall I ask him to give you a ring tomorrow?”

  “Thank you, yes. If he has the time—it’s really nothing urgent.”

  This would be tricky—here’s French about to ask for Christopher’s help, and Christopher working undercover, under no one’s direction but his own in order to keep his wife safe and sane. He would need to be careful during this chat.

  French finished his pint, but before he left, he said, “You did not witness this attack on Mr. MacWeeks, did you?”

  “No, I heard it.”

  “But you heard no voices. You thought you saw this flash of blue retreating—but that could’ve been influenced by the first time you saw it, the evening you met Ms. Woodford. And wouldn’t you say Mr. MacWeeks came away lucky from this attack? Broken glasses, a bump on his cheek. I saw no marks on his throat from where he was choked.”

  “Are you saying you think Roddy is making this up?”

  “I’m asking you, Ms. Parke—do you think him capable of it, in order to divert our attention?”

  “Look for Rosette Taylor’s fascinating account of the life of the sweat bee in next month’s issue, and learn about the hard work and solitary life of one of our native insects.”

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

  Chapter 31

  Pru was allowed to finish her wine alone—along with both packets of crisps—but not in peace. French had not expected an answer to his last question, saying that it was only an idea. An idea that he wanted her to pass along to Christopher, she decided, so that both men could mull it over before comparing conclusions.

  The police knew no more—probably less—than she and Christopher did. And yet she had no inclination to discuss her ideas with French—those ideas she would save for Christopher. In the meantime, she would have to double her efforts, talk
to each of the Austin women about Twyla, even speak to Iris. Something, somewhere, was terribly wrong.

  Sunshine flooded the mews when she walked out of the pub. Still a bit of pale daylight until almost nine-thirty in the evening, midspring. Good thing, too—she had another appointment before this day was finished. She walked to the Lamont Road house, lifted the knocker, and let it drop. Rosette answered as if she’d been hovering behind the door.

  “Good afternoon,” Pru said.

  “Hi,” Rosette said, opening the door wide and looking resigned to her fate. “Come on in.”

  Pru followed her through the sitting room, where an unopened bottle of wine and a line of glasses straight as soldiers sat on the coffee table. Rosette didn’t stop until she reached the far side of the kitchen, where she squeezed herself into the corner between the cookstove and the sink and crossed her arms. “Do you want tea?”

  “Rosette, I hope you don’t feel as if I’m prying into your private life. It’s only, why didn’t you want me to know you and Twyla were sisters?” Rosette’s eyebrows jumped, and so Pru corrected herself. “Half. But still, her sister.”

  “Her crazy sister,” Rosette said. “That’s what she told you, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t understand why this had to be a big secret—or at least a secret from me. Everyone else knows, don’t they?” Pru had had no siblings until she discovered Simon only two years before and she treasured him, although they could drive each other crazy at times. Still, she wouldn’t hide him—they’d had enough of that.

  “The moment I met you I knew you two would bond—you should’ve been her sister, not me.” Before Pru could protest, Rosette waved her hand. “No, that isn’t right. We loved each other”—she took a deep, ragged breath—“it just took a long time to get there.” She reached over and switched on the electric kettle. Good, Pru thought—tea. That means I’ll hear it all. Surely Rosette knows the rules.

  “My father left my mother and me when I was eleven,” Rosette said. “Turns out he had another family with another daughter waiting for him in Blanco, not much more than an hour away from where we lived in Austin. The first time I saw Twyla she was four—it was when my father was moving his things out of our house. He came back for another carload and had this little girl with him. ‘Here’s your sister, Rosette. Say hello, Twyla.’ As if it was the most normal thing in the world. I didn’t see her again for fifteen years.”