The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  “Hello, my darling. How’s your evening?”

  Christopher’s voice gave her a rush of pleasure and longing.

  She sank into the sofa with her wine as she said, “You are the best thing that’s happened today. Are you free to talk?”

  “Teddy offered to let me sleep at their house at the edge of Hereford—Chiv said so, too. I told them thanks but I’d just as soon be on my own. I believe Teddy’s out with friends this evening, and I didn’t want him to think I was his minder. He dropped me at a B&B.”

  “Where is it?” Pru asked.

  “Somewhere in the 1970s, I think,” he said, and she laughed. “Orange plaid duvet and a bath down the corridor. Still, the woman who runs it gave me tea and a slice of seedcake when I arrived, and there’s a pub next door, so I’ve had a meal and a pint. Teddy said he would be here at eight tomorrow morning—no later than nine, he promised.”

  “You’ve time for a full English, then,” Pru said, referring to a breakfast plate with everything from egg to baked beans. “Did you learn anything from Teddy on your drive?”

  “He was a bit more talkative than on our last journey. Said he didn’t know when his parents came in that night, but that he heard raised voices later. He said that was normal, so he paid no attention. Other than that, he keeps himself pretty much to himself. Now, what do you have to tell me?”

  She went back to the kitchen and retrieved her notepad and pen. “All right, here goes.” She went through her day—every bit of it—keeping the tale of Roddy’s assault for last, because that would end with the happy news that French wanted to consult with Christopher. Pru also held back the worrisome story of the ARGS sweatshirt–clad form seen in the window of Fritz & Floyd. No need for Christopher, a three-hour drive away, to lose sleep over something he could do nothing about.

  “Jealousy is a strong motive,” he said.

  “You mean Iris?”

  “And anger in the moment. Perhaps a lover spurned.”

  “Chiv? No, I don’t believe he would lash out that way. He was going to leave Iris for Twyla—there’s Iris’s motivation for certain. Perhaps others had opportunities we don’t know about. Tomorrow, I’ll dig and dig until I find out.”

  “Wait until I get there,” he urged her.

  “No, we’ll be too busy with plants by then. It isn’t as if I’ll be sneaking round in the dark—I’ll be talking with each one of them right there on the grounds with loads of people as witnesses.”

  “So Rosette thinks Twyla had proof of something,” Christopher said. “If it was physical proof, where did it go?”

  “Twyla told me what she had was safe. But safe where?”

  “And proof of what—wrongdoing? Roddy going behind her back? How sound is Damien’s company—hang on, I’ll take a look at that one. Where did you say Forde is staying in London? Of course, Twyla’s proof and why she was killed could still be two different things. Remember that. French didn’t say anything more about Sweetie and her run-in with Twyla?”

  Pru listened with admiration as he sifted through her research, picking out this bit or that to examine more closely.

  “Well,” she said with a mix of excitement and apprehension that sent her voice several notes higher than usual, “we might very well find out a lot more soon. Here’s why—this afternoon, after I left the station, I went back to the garden site.” And so she told him about coming across Roddy, the vanishing blue form, and ended with French at the Cadogan Arms requesting to talk with Christopher.

  Christopher leapt upon the part of the story she’d hoped to skim over.

  “He might’ve turned on you, whoever it was. And no one saw anything?”

  “French thinks I could’ve invented seeing the disappearing bluebonnet sweatshirt because of the association with the last time, when I left Twyla.”

  “No, trust what you saw—I do.”

  “If the same person who murdered Twyla attacked Roddy—what’s the connection?”

  Christopher skipped over evidence, clues, and suspects. “Are you all right there on your own?” he asked with urgency.

  “Yes, of course I am.” She sighed, leaving him to pick up on the subtext—I can manage just fine, but I wish with all my heart that you were here.

  —

  She couldn’t settle in bed yet. Twyla wasn’t keeping her up—Twyla remained quiet, apparently content with Pru’s efforts. Without worrying that she’d hear voices, Pru had more room in her mind for frustration and annoyance that someone had actually tracked her down in her own neighborhood. Enough—she’d go out herself and take one more look round for that ARGS sweatshirt.

  “Not to worry,” she said aloud, as if Christopher might get wind of her impulse. “I’ll take protection.” She reached for her phone and rang the appropriate number. “Mrs. Miller, let me take Boris out for his last call, why don’t you? I need a bit of a walk before bed.”

  No shade of bluebonnets, no hooded figure lurking at the corner, no nothing. Pru and Boris walked along their own quiet road, turned onto Chiswick High Road, still busy with pubs and late-night cafés, and made a brief foray into the edge of the Common for the dog. In the lift on the way up, Pru looked at Boris and Boris looked back.

  “Not even a squirrel for you to growl at, was there, boy?”

  Boris yawned.

  “Draw a bluebonnet flower, and label these parts: banner, banner spot, keel, wing, stamen, calyx, and pedicel. Complete correct answers will be eligible for tonight’s prize from The Natural Gardener on Old Bee Caves Road.”

  Quiz Time at the monthly meeting of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 33

  Pru saved the Portuguese custard tart for breakfast. After downing it in three bites, she was out the door and to the hospital grounds by seven. Only Chiv and Iris had arrived earlier.

  “Good morning, lovely day,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “I’m ready for those lorries to arrive with plants. Look at the wall, practically finished. It looks fantastic. Say, Chiv, do you have a minute? You got my phone message, didn’t you—I left one for you, too, Iris. I hope you don’t mind, Chiv—I wanted to have only a quick word.” Pru rushed her words and ran out of breath, putting a finger up to stop Iris from following them. “And then after, just a moment with you, Iris. Yes? All right?”

  Chiv walked with her to the bottom of Main Avenue. Pru noticed a Laurent-Perrier lorry delivering cases of champagne to the café that would occupy the same building where they had been questioned about Twyla’s death. The restaurants would be open on press day, the day before the show, which was the same day as the gala and the queen’s visit. Four days left for them to finish the garden—four days to do what other crews had taken weeks to accomplish. She gulped down her panic.

  “You all right?” Chiv asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” Pru replied, knowing she sounded as if she’d started the day with a double cappuccino and not a cup of tea. “Chiv, look, you’ve got to tell the police you saw Twyla. They might be a bit suspicious and if they catch you out, it’ll appear bad for no reason.”

  Chiv didn’t respond, but he didn’t curse at her, either, so she took it as he would consider her suggestion.

  “You got on the Tube that night at Turnham Green,” she said. “That’s my stop.”

  He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Yeah, I remember you said that.”

  “You didn’t see me?”

  “I don’t know where your flat is. How would I know where to look?”

  “What time did you get back to your digs?”

  Chiv shrugged. He didn’t look at her, instead concentrating on a steel girder being set vertically in a garden up the avenue. “Half ten. Eleven.”

  “Was Iris there?”

  “She’d gone out to the shops.”

  So, not there. But hadn’t Iris told French she’d stopped for a coffee? “A bit late for that, wasn’t it?”

  “There’s a newsagent round the corner—we’d run out of milk.”

&n
bsp; “What happened to Twyla isn’t your fault, Chiv.”

  “I want to know who did this to her,” he whispered.

  They returned to the garden site as the Austin women drifted in. All hands on deck.

  “We’ve another pallet of stones to bring over,” Chiv said to the group. “First, we’ll need to install the liner.”

  Pru had a flash of déjà vu. Her first day on buildup, she and Chiv had tried to install the liner, but the company that supplied it had sent the wrong size. They’d had to reorder. After the police had punched a hole in the replacement, Chiv ordered again, but the company worked off their original paperwork—and sent the wrong size. If there was a murder to commit, Pru was surprised it hadn’t been Chiv tracking down the supplier. But at last, they had what they needed.

  “And once that’s in and settled, we’ll test the pump. If it goes well, we can set the grating back and cover it all over. Teddy and Kit will probably arrive midday, and we’ll unload what they brought so they can head back out.”

  Pru’s spirits fell several notches at the thought of waving hello to Christopher followed by waving goodbye to him again.

  “Right,” Chiv continued. “Let’s get you lot going. I’ve a pail of gravel in the shed there. We put that on top of the liner to hold it down.”

  “I’ll get it,” Pru said, and left the others to adjust the liner and flat stones around the top edge.

  The shed had quickly become the repository of all manner of bits and bobs during buildup—a bag with extra pairs of work gloves had been left on top of a jumbo-sized upturned black nursery pot. Waterproofs—unnecessary the last several days—had been hung on pegs and dropped on the floor. Pru shifted tools and boxes, thinking about the potting shed back at Greenoak and what a mess it had been, but that accumulation had taken forty years and this only a couple of weeks. At last, her toe hit something solid. She uncovered the pail of gravel and used both hands to heave it up, staggering slightly under its weight.

  She pushed the door open with an elbow, stumbling out backward as she rounded the corner of the shed. She heard the roar of an engine. Pivoting on the spot, she looked up to see a pallet of stone over her head and bearing down on her, two tons of material swaying in the teeth of a forklift. Someone called out, and Pru dropped the pail, which toppled over and spilled its contents across the ground. She ran to get out of the way, but skittered on the tiny rocks and fell back onto her bottom. The pallet of stone continued to advance until it loomed over her—she rolled sideways and was caught between the shed and the front wheel of the forklift as the machine came to a shuddering halt.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Ivory screamed at the forklift driver.

  Iris jumped down from the seat of the machine and ran forward.

  “Pru—are you all right?” she asked. “Oh my God! Where did you come from? I didn’t see you—I thought the path was clear.”

  Iris reached down and took Pru’s elbow, but Pru pulled it away. At once, everyone crowded over her.

  “I’m all right, I slipped on the gravel, that’s all. Sorry for the mess, let me get something to sweep it up.” Air. She needed air. Ignoring the hands that reached out to help, she stood by herself, but had to lean against the shed for fear her wobbly legs wouldn’t hold her. The ring of hovering people parted as she dusted herself off and grabbed the pail—staying in motion so that no one would see how she shook.

  “Are you okay, honey?” Ivory asked, laying a hand on her arm. “Come on, we’ll take care of that.” Pru set the pail down and allowed herself to be led away, leaning on Ivory and stepping carefully over the spilled gravel.

  Roddy had arrived, and as she passed him he mouthed two words that she could lip-read quite easily. “Annabelle Dawson.” The bicycling student that Iris had plowed down with the truck on a lane near the nursery.

  Chiv rushed over and took her other arm. “Pru.”

  “It’s all right, Chiv.” She patted his hand. “I’m fine. It was an accident.”

  “Why don’t you take a break—we’ll get this sorted.”

  She was about to say no, she didn’t need a break, but stopped herself. “Yes, thanks—I think I’ll go for a coffee.” Gently, she shook Ivory’s and Chiv’s hands off and straightened. “Iris? Why don’t you come along?”

  Iris’s eyes shifted left and right, as if seeking an escape route. “I can’t, I’ve got to stay and work.”

  “Go on, Iris,” Chiv barked.

  —

  “I’m sorry, Pru, I didn’t see you. I was bringing over that last pallet of stone. Teddy would usually drive the machines, but I can do it in a pinch.”

  Iris hadn’t spoken a word on the way to the exhibitors’ marquee. She meekly followed Pru’s direction to sit and waited for Pru to bring their coffees to the table. Iris wasn’t tall, but she seemed to have shrunk even more as she sat with rounded shoulders, her head hanging and her chipmunk cheeks sagging. Her fingertips danced lightly on the table and she kept her eyes down. Pru didn’t speak. All her thoughts had been tumbled about and she needed to get them in order. She tried to brush away the image of two tons of stone hanging over her head, and the knowledge that Iris could drive the forklift—could she drive the excavator, too? Had she dropped a load of rocks onto Twyla’s body?

  The silence didn’t seem to suit Iris, whose fingers danced faster and faster until she thrust her hands in her lap. “Roddy told you, didn’t he—about that girl I hit?”

  “Yes.”

  “I felt terrible about that. But it was an accident,” Iris said, but with not nearly as much conviction as Chiv. “She understood that.”

  “Annabelle Dawson.”

  Iris nodded. “Roddy got hold of that story and twisted it, said I was after her because I thought she and Chiv were carrying on. An accident,” she repeated more loudly.

  “Have you never trusted Chiv? All these years?”

  “Trust isn’t that easy for me. When you don’t know if what you’ve got with someone is true.”

  “You think Chiv has cheated on you through your entire relationship?”

  Iris picked up her coffee with both hands. She took a careful sip before saying, “No, I don’t believe he’s ever…except with the other one.”

  “Except with Twyla? You call that cheating? I thought you had left him.”

  A flame of anger stirred behind Iris’s dark eyes. “So he told you about that.”

  “Did you leave him?” Pru pressed.

  Iris nodded.

  “Were you married?”

  “No.”

  “Had you put parameters on your leaving—told him it’s only a little break, we’re still in this relationship, just need a year or two off, mind your p’s and q’s while I’m away? Did you expect him to wait?”

  “Don’t you think I’ve regretted leaving him ever since? But I left because I wasn’t sure we’d make it.”

  “Ah.” Pru’s annoyance grew with every excuse Iris put forward. “So you made a preemptive strike. He’d asked you to marry him.”

  “I didn’t think his heart was in it.”

  “And yet, all these years later, you’re still together.” The moment the words left her mouth Pru wished she could suck them back in. Because now she knew that Chiv had been ready to end it with Iris. All for Twyla.

  “Did you see Twyla that night she arrived?” Pru asked.

  “No, why would I want to?” Iris’s face drew up in a sour frown. “And why are you asking all these questions about her?”

  “Because I want to know who did this to her. Don’t you?”

  “That’s up to the police to find out,” Iris snapped. She finished her coffee and stood. “You’re all right, aren’t you? After that.” She jerked her head backward in the general direction of the garden. “You’re not hurt.”

  Pru wished she had a quick retort to Iris’s callous and offhanded statement, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Iris turned on the spot and walked out.

  —

/>   Pru emerged from the marquee fuming, but when she saw KayAnn and Nell approaching, she brightened up, pivoting on the spot to join them. She gave Chiv a look over her shoulder, wanting to say she wasn’t skiving off work but following a schedule of interviews—a schedule she’d invented for herself. But Chiv didn’t see her—he was pacing along the roadway, on his phone, and—it looked likely to Pru—cursing at someone. He paused only to sneeze and draw out of his pocket an enormous handkerchief, which looked as if it had been through the wars.

  When asked about their theater evening, the women said they’d enjoyed themselves and had been surprised and delighted to discover that you could order your drinks before the play started.

  “The bartender said they’d have all the glasses lined up and ready to go at the intermission—what do you call it here?”

  “The interval,” Pru said.

  They’d each ordered two glasses of white wine, not realizing they would have only twenty minutes in which to consume the drinks.

  “We were in the second balcony,” KayAnn said, “and after the interval thing, it was getting kinda warm up there, you know? I think we dozed off.”

  “Think?” Nell snorted a laugh and KayAnn joined in. “We woke up when everybody started clapping. During the curtain call one of the actors said, ‘And don’t tell anyone the ending,’ so even when we asked later, Ivory and Rosette wouldn’t say. They said good thing Twyla wouldn’t be quizzing us on what happened in the second act.”

  That sobered both of them up.

  “I never minded those quizzes at the meetings,” KayAnn said. “One time I got a hundred percent and won a cute little ceramic garden gnome wearing a cowboy hat.” Her lower lip trembled. “He lives in that big potted aloe I have on the deck, you know which one I mean, Nell?”

  “They’ll find out who did this, won’t they, Pru?” Nell asked. “The police—they’ve got to find out. Are you helping them, is that why you wanted to talk? Because we’ll help, too—you just say the word.”