“Members in Good Standing may apply for a post on the Executive Board by submitting themselves to an interview process as described in the subsections below.”
Article 3, Section 3, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 34
Pru felt like a yappy little dog nipping at the heels of each crewmember. She would no more finish with one than go after another, but she tried to disguise her intentions by throwing herself into work at the same time and taking a casual tone to her inquiries. As she and Ivory struggled to unfold the heavy black liner, she asked about the society. “You’ve a huge membership, and amazing attendance,” Pru said. “Two hundred every month?”
“We get great speakers and we divide into subgroups for study sessions. That was all Twyla’s idea.” Ivory began to fold the edges of the liner to smooth it out, but paused. “I know you saw those looks they all gave each other about me being vice president.”
“I…well, I may have picked up on something about you being in the office for a long time, while Twyla stayed president.”
“My husband said I was trying to stage a coup.” Ivory laughed. “One day two or three years ago, I asked the board, shouldn’t we have a regular election? I just wanted to take it to the membership, that was all. Twyla’d been president for years. Well, she never put up a fuss. She said yes, of course it’s time for an election. And we all voted for president and Twyla won, and that was okay with me. We just needed to exercise our rights, that’s all.” Ivory pushed her hair out of her face. “Twyla was pretty much superwoman, you know, but every once in a while, I’d catch her looking sad and tired and I’d think, where does she really want to be. I suppose I told myself I was doing it for her as much as for me. And I did kinda want to be president. But not this way.”
“You didn’t see her that night or get a call from her?”
Ivory shook her head. “They’ll find who did this, won’t they? And if they want any help, you know, they can come to us. Because Austin rocks.”
—
As the morning wore on, Pru couldn’t remember what she had hoped to accomplish by talking with each person. It hadn’t mattered about the women not sitting together at the theater—The Mousetrap played at St. Martin’s, in the heart of the theater district, where CCTV cameras pointed every which way. French had probably already tracked down each one’s movements, as well as the rest of the crew.
Still, she couldn’t let it alone when she spotted Roddy. He had retreated to the corner of the gift shop and was a still figure in a hive of activity, as workers stocked the shelves with every manner of garden accessory—gloves, hats, scarves, secateurs, mugs, earrings. He may have been reluctant to get any closer to the ARGS garden for fear of being put to work, but he kept a good vantage point of their progress. When she approached him, she noticed he wore an unbroken pair of glasses. The mark on his cheek appeared freshly red as if it had been drawn on with lipstick—or perhaps that was Pru’s imagination. She leaned closer, looking up into his face, wanting to touch the mark to see if it would smear. Roddy drew away slightly.
“Are you feeling all right today?” she asked.
He nodded. “A bit sore,” he said, rubbing a shoulder. “I fell up against the shed. And what about you?”
It took Pru a moment to cotton onto his meaning. “I’m fine—silly of me to slip on the gravel. I got in Iris’s way, that’s all.”
“Yes, and woe to the woman who does that,” Roddy said darkly.
“That isn’t what I meant,” Pru said. Roddy shrugged. “Did you tell DCI French the truth, Roddy? Or did you see Twyla that evening?”
Roddy sneezed and took the time to search for and locate a packet of tissues before answering. “Shouldn’t we leave the investigation to the police, Pru? Why do you feel compelled to get involved?”
“Because I want to know who did this. Don’t you?”
Roddy looked left and right and at the ground. “She rang me.”
“That day? When she arrived?” Pru’s pulse quickened.
Roddy watched as two uniforms strolled by. French had been true to his word—these two had been making the circuit all morning. As long as it wasn’t French himself, she wouldn’t worry about Christopher being spotted when he returned.
“Later in the day. She said, ‘Come to the garden, let’s talk.’ She had that way about her, you know, you’d be happy to do anything she said.” Roddy smiled—a genuine smile, Pru thought—but his expression changed quickly. He frowned, and his eyes grew dark. “I wanted to see her, I truly did, but I hadn’t explained to her the changes I’d made and…I got as far as the gate here and turned round and left. I’m a coward, I know that. I should’ve come in—perhaps the murderer was here at that moment and I might’ve been able to stop it. The way you stopped it, Pru—the way you saved my life.”
That could get old, Pru thought.
“If she rang you, where was her mobile?” Pru asked herself aloud.
Roddy shrugged his answer. “French didn’t say anything, and so I thought it would be better—you know, simpler, easier—to not say anything, either.”
Simpler and easier for you, you mean. Where had Twyla’s mobile got to? The murderer must’ve taken it—did he also take whatever Twyla had considered “proof”?
—
Pru was surveying the crew, choosing her next interview, when Rosette approached.
“What do the police know?” Rosette asked.
Pru shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
“Well, someone’s got to track this murderer down. I was watching you talking to everyone—asking a lot of questions.” Pru opened her mouth to protest, but didn’t have the chance before Rosette continued. “I want to help, Pru. What can I do?”
“Thank you. I don’t know what any of us can do, really. It’s only that, I want to find something out. I feel like I owe her that.”
“So do I.”
“Oi!” Chiv yelled. “You—away from there!”
Pru sniggered. Only Chiv would forget Forde’s name—the name of the garden’s sponsor. Or wannabe sponsor. Possibly. She must ring Damien for more on that.
Forde had been loitering at the back of the site near the end of the wall and had reached out, as if he might touch one of the top stones, when Chiv had called him off. Twyla had built the end piece of the wall—Chiv had said so, proud that she still remembered what he’d taught her. No wonder he wanted hands off.
Pru waved at Forde. “Do you have a moment?”
“Mr. Chiverton won’t talk to me about the bluebonnets, Pru,” Forde said as they walked away and stood in front of “Welcome to Oz.” “We must have bluebonnets—it’s what Ms. Woodford would’ve wanted.”
“Did you know that Twyla was afraid that this garden wouldn’t be built?”
Forde’s eyes widened like saucers.
“You didn’t hear from her that day, did you, Forde? Did she phone you, perhaps leave a message?”
“I was on a train back from Newcastle that evening. It’s a long journey and I was tired,” Forde said. “I went straight to my flat. There’s a Pret a Manger on Park Street near where I stay, and I stopped in for a sandwich. I don’t like railway food. Ham and pickle. But they were closing—lights were going out and all—they’d shut down their systems, and I had to pay with currency, not a card.”
Pru started to cut in before he detailed the cost of his meal.
“Two pounds, ninety-nine,” he added.
“You didn’t stop by here after you arrived?”
“No. Why would I?”
“I’m only asking. You know it’s our duty, each one of us, to tell the police everything, turn over any bit of evidence that might help them catch this person. It’s what I’m going to do—turn over to them the information Twyla had.” As soon as I figure out what it is. And locate it.
“Seems obvious to me who it might be.” Forde leaned over as he spoke in low tones, his eyes locked on Roddy, still across the road and on his phone.<
br />
“I’m not sure anyone has been eliminated as a suspect. And remember it isn’t just the reputation of the society at stake here,” Pru said. “Not even the reputation of Texas, because we all know that has its ups and downs. We’re doing this—Twyla was doing this—to highlight a fragile landscape. We must be true to the public trust.”
“I’d say business is the best option for public land management—we understand the costs and returns. The ecosystem is not in danger, I don’t know why you say that.” Forde’s face reddened, and he stuck out his bottom lip before straightening his shoulders. “And after all, shouldn’t we just leave all this to the police?”
Pru didn’t bother to respond—her heart and mind had been captured by two delivery lorries beeping their way in from the Chelsea Bridge entrance and pulling up in front of the ARGS garden. Christopher had returned.
“New members who help with setup of our Spring Plant Sale can count double the volunteer hours toward your yearly goal. Work begins at six o’clock Saturday morning—see you there!”
New Members’ Corner, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 35
Teddy and another young man hopped out of one cab and Christopher came out of the other. It was all Pru could do to keep from throwing her arms round him.
Everyone gathered at the back of the lorries. Pru edged her way to stand next to Kit, who cut his eyes at her, offering a tiny wink as the back gates rolled up to reveal a forest of plants.
First to be off-loaded, stiff shrubs with gray-green leaves—they were already in bloom with clusters of tiny yellow flowers. The prickly leaves put up a good fight, scratching cheeks and hands and arms as the black nursery pots were pulled out and heaved onto the roadway.
“Agarita,” Rosette breathed, her voice filled with wonder. “Wherever did you find it?”
Pru smiled. “Chiv has his ways.”
“Girls—botanical name?”
“Mahonia trifoliolata,” KayAnn and Nell responded in unison.
“And that?” Rosette pointed to a lanky shrub in the back of one lorry. “ID?”
The two young women squinted into the lorry and looked at each other. “Mitten leaves,” one of them murmured. “Sassafras!” they called out.
Rosette nodded her teacher’s approval as KayAnn and Nell high-fived each other.
The bulk of the delivery contained shrubs or shrubby trees. Once it was all out, Chiv directed them to move the pots to a wide trench dug toward the rear.
“Do they all go at the back?” Kit asked. “Don’t the flowers grow under the trees?”
“Kit’s thinking of English bluebells,” Pru said to the Austin women. “You should see a beech wood here in spring—bluebells carpeting the floor of the forest. It’s truly lovely.” She thought of one particularly fine day just the month before when she and Christopher had walked through the New Forest amid a sea of pale blue. “Bluebonnets grow out in the open, Kit—along roads, in meadows and fields. They need the sun, not shade. So we’re using these shrubs as sort of a Texas version of a hedgerow—a backdrop for our landscape.”
“I’d like to see those bluebonnets someday,” he replied, keeping his eyes on her for a second longer than Kit might.
“Would you?” Pru asked. They’d talked of travel, but she had never wanted to make it seem mandatory that Christopher visit her home state.
The second lorry held more shrubs and many flats of green grass, about eight inches high. The green would set off the wildflowers to perfection.
Even Forde had been roped into physical work unloading the delivery, and now sat on the bumper of one of the lorries, sweating in his ARGS blue. “Where are they—the bluebonnets?”
“We’re waiting for more than bluebonnets,” Rosette said. “Tickseed, paintbrush, blanketflower. KayAnn? Nell?”
“Coreopsis tinctoria, Castilleja indivisa, Gaillardia pulchella,” they rattled off.
“Ephemerals next delivery,” Chiv said, “they’re coming from a different site.”
“I thought there weren’t any bluebonnets,” Ivory said.
Chiv didn’t reply. As contractor, it was his job to grow or source the plants for the garden—whatever the designer wanted. And so it would be love-in-a-mist. Wouldn’t it? Roddy had left the grounds, but he’d stayed long enough to have a word with Chiv. Pru hadn’t heard what they said, but she had seen the exchange end with Roddy sticking his finger in Chiv’s face and Chiv—a good foot shorter than Roddy—advance on the designer, who backed off and stalked away.
When they’d sorted the plants, placing the shrubs and tucking away the grasses for after the next delivery, the women wandered off to lunch. Forde vanished, probably, Pru thought, to escape any more physical labor. At long last, Sweetie and Skippy arrived, both wearing secret smiles. “Welcome to Oz” sat ready, and the Aussies had dispersed until last-minute fluffing of their garden—Skippy must have a lot of free time on his hands. Sweetie apologized for her lateness.
Pru was happy for their happiness, but in a frustrated sort of way. She dreaded seeing Christopher immediately reverse his journey and be away another night. When would he talk with French? When would he talk with her?
Chiv, at the back of the site, taking stock of the shrubs, called her over with a jerk of his chin. When she came up, he stuck his hands in his pockets and exhaled.
“So,” she said.
“The leaflets for the garden,” Chiv said. “The ones that get handed out during the show.”
Pru nodded. “Description of the garden, information on designer and contractor, plant list, drawing of the plan.” And she saw it—the leaflet appeared fully formed in her mind’s eye, touting Roddy MacWeeks, avant-garde garden designer and his amazing “Blue on Blue” garden. Where would Twyla and the bluebonnets be in all that? Pru’s face flushed with anger. “Oh no, he can’t.”
“If he has his way, it’ll be the Roddy MacWeeks garden starring Roddy-bloody-MacWeeks. I want to hold off the final printing. I was able to take the job to a place here in London that Iris’s brother owns. I’ve tried to talk with him about it, ask for a delay—but I’m not exactly his favorite person. He says MacWeeks is in charge, that’s who he takes orders from. I thought someone else might be able to have a chat with him.” Chiv watched her and waited.
A chat without cursing was what he meant, of course. And with someone unrelated to his quasi brother-in-law.
“But, Chiv, will delaying the printing of the leaflet do any real good? It’ll still be full of Roddy and the wrong flowers.” Chiv’s expression didn’t change, but she caught that impish gleam in his gaze, and it gave her a thrill to think that he might have a last card to play. “All right, yes, I’d be happy to talk with him. Do you want me to go now—this afternoon?”
“That’d be great. Thanks, Pru. Tell him you need to proofread the thing or something. Tell him anything that will work. Just hold him off a day or two, that’s all we need.” That’s all they had.
“Where is his shop?” she asked, but Chiv had moved on and called for the attention of Kit, Teddy, and Teddy’s friend.
“You three—why don’t you all wait until later for your journey back to Hereford?” he asked them. “Avoid some of that M4 traffic getting out of London. Take the afternoon, have a rest.”
She did her best to keep from looking like a puppy dog about to be deserted. A rest, Pru thought. Kit with free time? She locked her eyes on Christopher in desperation; he frowned and checked his watch. He’d go back to the flat—he’d be free, and she would be tracking down Iris’s brother and stalling for time by arguing about the spelling of “trifoliolata” and the placement of a comma. And then it would be the end of her workday, but Christopher would be gone again. And she really, really wanted to see him. Responsibility sucks.
“Here you go,” Chiv said, handing Pru a business card. “That’s him, Iris’s brother—he’s out near you.”
Pru looked down at the card, which read: PRINT-4-U
, AL BRIGHT, 315 CHISWICK HIGH ROAD, NEAREST UNDERGROUND: TURNHAM GREEN.
“Oh, he is, isn’t he—he’s quite near me,” she said, laughing and clutching the card to her chest as if she’d won a prize. “That’s great, Chiv, really fantastic. Listen, you wouldn’t mind, would you, if I took a bit more time—I might stop by my flat since the printing place is so close.” She spoke up as loud as she could without those around wondering why she was shouting.
Christopher closed up one of the lorries, but halfway looked over his shoulder—she knew he had heard her. As the two young men prepared to drive the lorries out to Ealing, where it was much easier to find parking, Teddy asked Kit, “Lift?”
“No thanks, I’ll hop on the Tube. No trouble. See you all tomorrow,” he called to the crew.
Pru forced herself to stay put a few minutes longer, instead of sprinting after him down Main Avenue.
“This is a fine wall,” Sweetie said as she studied the serpentine creation, running her hand along the top stones. Chiv didn’t protest. “Too bad it isn’t permanent—we could’ve hidden a little trinket in it. Sort of like a time capsule. What would you put in there, Pru?”
“Mmm.” Pru, still distracted by Christopher’s retreating form, came up with nothing.
“I’d put in a photo of my boyfriend and me,” KayAnn said.
“A picture of my boys’ football teams,” Ivory decided. “Both varsity and junior—they won their divisions last season.”
“I’d give up my Starbucks card,” Nell said. “Because the person finding it all those years later might be in need of a skinny mocha frappuccino.”
“Extra whip,” Sweetie added.
“A herbarium specimen of a bluebonnet,” Rosette said, looking at her shoes, making Pru think that Rosette rarely joined in fanciful conversations.
“Pressed, dried out, and properly labeled.” Pru’s head shot up and she scanned the group, sure she would see Twyla, then realized KayAnn had said that last bit.
The Bluebonnet Betrayal Page 22
