The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  She stuck her phone into her bag and her hand came back out with the black-and-white copy of the leaflet. She smoothed out the crumpled paper across her thigh and her gaze instantly fell on Roddy’s garden title, “Blue on Blue,” triggering a stab of annoyance—it should’ve read “More Than Rock and Stone.” She skimmed the rest of the text, noting a paragraph on the back, labeled “Sponsorship” that promoted BlueGreen Enterprises. She caught sight of the phrase “proprietary process.” Someone would need to tell Forde the bad news.

  A crowd poured out of the Underground entrance. Pru watched them walk past her, remembering she intended to go back to the garden. But not yet. First, she needed to clear her head. She needed to think, she needed to walk. She needed Boris.

  —

  “Well, how lovely—an afternoon outing,” Mrs. Miller said to Pru’s proposal. “What do you think, Boris?” she called over her shoulder.

  From the sitting room, Boris replied with a throaty affirmation and trotted out to stand at the coatrack, directly under where his lead hung.

  “It’s very good of you,” Mrs. Miller said. “I’ve spent the afternoon dealing with a stubborn RSPHT board member who insists that next year’s budget include hiring a production company to create a television program about the English silk trade in the seventeenth century—reenacting the influx of Huguenot refugees and all. Where does he think we’ll get the money for that, I ask you?”

  “Perhaps he should pay for it himself,” Pru said as she snapped Boris’s lead onto his collar.

  “He isn’t after spending money,” Mrs. Miller replied as she closed the door, “but rather making it. He owns the production company.”

  In the lift on the way down, Pru said to the dog, “I must be brave, Boris. I can’t let what Roddy has done scare me like this. I must confront it full-on.” She pulled out the copy of the leaflet again and this time forced herself to read through—from Roddy’s “artistic vision” and “dreamlike quality of the flower’s texture” to “a statement of today’s culture” regarding the rusted fruit machine. By the time the lift doors glided open—in only two floors—her blood had started to boil.

  As she and Boris walked out and down the road toward the Common, Pru flipped the paper over to give the sponsor’s paragraph closer attention, hoping the words wouldn’t read as Forde sounded—blah, blah, blah. She made it past “proprietary process” and something about bluebonnets’ impact on science and business, but stumbled over the word “engineered.”

  Boris pulled up at the zebra walk across the busy road and Pru stopped with him—he was as good as a guide dog, she thought. They crossed safely, and she returned to the leaflet and read the words again, this time aloud.

  “…creating the patented seed of the engineered version of Lupinus texensis.”

  The word “engineered” to a gardener was like a red flag to a bull. The word meant genetically modified, switching genes from plant to plant, animal to plant even, to accomplish sometimes quite dubious goals. High demand for winter tomatoes in the North? No problem, let’s just splice a cold-tolerant fish gene into this tomato’s DNA.

  Boris growled. “I knew you would see it my way,” Pru said, tugging him along as he attempted to head off to their left. “No squirrels today, Boris, please. Now, what are the consequences of genetically engineering a bluebonnet? This is the question science needs to ask itself, you know—bluebonnets do not live in a vacuum, they are one part of a complex web. Do you think Damien knows about this? Perhaps not—and that’s why Forde has been so slow getting all the information to him—he knew there would be objections.”

  With the word “slow,” Pru’s feet slowed on the path across the Common. Damien had agreed to look at Forde’s proposal only because of Twyla. And he still hadn’t seen it. But Twyla had seen it—Forde had said something early on about that—he’d sounded so proud about sending her his research.

  Out came her phone. Pru pulled off the path, and Boris plopped down at her feet while she searched online for “Forde Thomas Forde,” “Newcastle University,” “biofuel,” “bluebonnets,” “genetics of”—various words and combinations thereof that might call up something relevant.

  Pru hated typing on her phone—these were not young thumbs—plus, most results appeared useless. There were hits about Forde at uni, Forde in chemistry club, Forde’s impoverished background leading to a fully funded scholarship. Finally, scrolling far down, she found a title that caught her eye, although reading the results might prove difficult—scientific papers didn’t come in a mobile format, apparently. Forde had written something called “Invertase Suppression in Lupinus texensis.” She had no idea what that meant—plant phys class had been far too many years ago. She made a call for help.

  “Hi, Rosette, it’s Pru. I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”

  “No, you aren’t. Chiv let us all go this afternoon, I’m at the house.”

  “Can you tell me what ‘invertase suppression’ is?”

  Rosette was silent a moment before answering. “It’s a method of genetic engineering, a way to produce sterile flowers—plants without pollen. Why?”

  Pru’s turn to be silent. She looked down at Boris, who looked back at her.

  “I think that’s what Forde wants to do to the bluebonnets.”

  “Lost and Found—Last month’s meeting netted a fine collection of left-behind items: purple-framed readers (2.5x), an almost-new copy of Know It—Plant It! and a pink push-up bra (32C). Please reclaim from the Secretary. No questions asked.”

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

  Chapter 38

  “He what?” That was how Rosette greeted Pru at the door.

  Pru had ended their phone conversation with “I’ll be right over,” dropped Boris off, and hopped on the Tube, half-jogging from the station to the house. It didn’t leave her much breath to explain, which didn’t matter, as she didn’t understand it herself.

  They settled on the sofa—Rosette had her laptop open and two glasses of red wine poured. Pru brought out her phone and sent Rosette the link to what she’d found.

  “This isn’t the entire paper,” Rosette said, “only the abstract. It doesn’t look as if it addresses the pollen issue, but shows how suppressing the invertase triggers a high production of the enzyme he needs for biofuel.”

  “Seems to defeat the purpose of growing a specially designed bluebonnet for biofuel if you’re creating a plant that can’t reproduce itself,” Pru said. “Unless, of course, you want to be the sole source of a very valuable commodity.”

  Rosette flushed. “This engineered bluebonnet would have to be planted out in mass quantities. If he thinks he’s going to do that in Texas, it would mean hundreds of thousands of acres of food for pollinating insects would disappear. The bees would die. The landscape would die, too, eventually.”

  “Endangered,” Pru said. Twyla’s voice echoed in her mind.

  “What?”

  “We cannot allow this to be endangered. It was what Twyla told me when we met. I thought she said something was ‘in danger,’ but I remembered it wrong. ‘Endangered’—she was talking about an entire ecosystem.”

  “And there Forde would be, selling tons of his engineered bluebonnet seeds every year. Landowners would grow crops, harvest for the biofuel—and then have to buy seeds all over again each year. From him.”

  “Forde is convinced GlobalSynergy will fork over a couple of million for his idea, even though Damien has yet to see it. What would he do if someone tried to stop him?”

  Pru hoped she was jumping to conclusions, that Rosette would tell her to hold her horses. Instead, Rosette stared at Pru for a moment, then slapped her hands on her thighs.

  “We need to find Twyla’s proof. I think we should go look for it.”

  The proposal caught Pru off guard. It seemed to surprise Rosette, too—she crossed her arms and looked at the floor, as if thinking better of such a crazy idea.

  But she’d
hooked Pru. “Really? You mean go back to the garden—search the grounds?”

  Rosette nodded. “Yes. Why not? We can go right now. I want to know—don’t you?”

  “Yes. All right, then,” Pru said. “Let’s go.”

  “After all,” Rosette said, as if Pru hadn’t just agreed, “I looked in her luggage, I’ve searched that room upstairs again—where else would she have put it? And you said Twyla told you it was safe.”

  “She said she put it somewhere safe. Perhaps at the garden. Why not at the garden?”

  They looked at each other as if silently counting down to liftoff, and at the same time, both shot off the sofa. Launch complete, they moved no farther, waiting for a second-stage command.

  And here it came—Ivory walking down the stairs. Both Pru and Rosette picked up their glasses, slugged down the last of the wine, and grabbed their bags—Rosette took her laptop, too.

  “Where are you two off to?” Ivory called as they headed to the door.

  Rosette froze like a deer in the headlights, her hand on the latch. Pru took over. “To the show grounds. Checking on…you know, the garden.”

  Ivory looked at her watch. “Are they still open?”

  “Oh yes, sure they are.” Although they’d have to hightail it over there.

  “Damien’s taking us all out to dinner, Rosette.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” Rosette said as she began to edge out backward. “Have a drink here first. I’ll be back. Pru, would you like to go with us?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want to intrude,” Pru replied, the necessary polite answer when she really would love it.

  “You wouldn’t be intruding at all,” Rosette said, “you’re practically a member of the society. Ivory, tell Damien I asked Pru, and could he call in one more for the reservation. But if we’re late, go on without us and we’ll meet you there. We’ve got some business to take care of.”

  Rosette grabbed Pru’s arm and pulled her outside. Just as the door shut, they heard Ivory say, “Yes, ma’am.”

  —

  Down the pavement they went, keeping pace with each other—in a hurry, but not running. There was more supposing to do.

  “Forde sent Twyla his research before she left Texas,” Pru said.

  Rosette nodded. “That’s must’ve been the reason she came late—she was probably studying it and came across the problem that would blow Forde’s whole plan sky-high.”

  “And while we all waited for her, he kept bragging about it to me, proud to show off to his American chemistry teacher, anticipating her praise.” Pru stopped. “He really wanted her approval, but didn’t he think she would see the problem? Doesn’t he care what would happen with this seed?”

  Rosette shook her head. “The majority of scientists are responsible people who understand consequences and know that they have a duty to promote good in the world. They have integrity. And then there are those few—they’re like little boys who blow things up for no other reason than to see the explosion. You ask them, ‘Why? Why do you want to breed a goat with two heads?’ and they shrug their shoulders. ‘Because we can,’ they say.”

  “Forde thought his idea would make him rich,” Pru said.

  “Even worse—a greedy scientist who doesn’t care about repercussions.”

  “So Twyla had the goods on him. But wait.” Pru held up a finger. “Even if he found her proof and got rid of it, his information is on the web for all to see.”

  “No, I took a closer look. Forde’s the one who posted that abstract—he can take it down. I’m surprised he hasn’t done it yet, although maybe it’s the one he missed.” When they held up at the Royal Hospital Road, waiting for traffic to clear, Rosette said, “I’m glad we’re doing this.”

  Pru noticed the flush in Rosette’s cheeks and how she bounced on the balls of her feet—a bundle of energy. She nodded. “Yes, I am, too.” Be prepared—Christopher’s Scout’s motto. There was no point in ringing French now with nothing to show. They would find proof and be prepared to lay it all out.

  “Of course, we’ll have to tell the police if we find something,” Pru said, adding, “but I’d rather it not be French. I’ll tell Christopher when he rings later. No, I’ll send him a text right now.”

  She typed a quick message—Forde? I’ll explain. Talk to you later. Love. She hit “send,” reminding herself that it was a lead, Forde was a suspect, and that she shouldn’t jump the gun.

  When she looked up, Rosette’s eyebrows were raised. “Christopher?”

  Oops. When Pru rang Rosette for help, it had signaled a shift in their relationship, and now, on their way to search for they weren’t sure what, it felt as if they’d bonded, become friends. It had caused Pru to forget not everyone knew everything. But she believed Rosette deserved the truth.

  “Christopher is my husband.”

  “Isn’t he in Hampshire?”

  “Mmm. No, he’s driving to Hereford to pick up plants for the garden.”

  “But that’s—” Rosette burst out in a long, low-pitched laugh. “Oh Lord! Kit is Christopher?”

  “He only did this—came onto the crew under an assumed name—to help me. I was having trouble coming to grips with everything, you see. He’s not working for the Met—DCI French had no room for him on the investigating team. But because he wanted to keep an eye on me, we thought it might be easier for all of you if you didn’t know he was really my husband, actually a police officer.” Pru frowned. “I’m sorry.”

  Rosette waved away her concern. “Ivory thought you and Kit had something going on—and she was right.”

  Pru, suspected of cheating on her husband with her husband, laughed, too. “So you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. It’s always nice to know you’ve got someone looking out for you.”

  Yes, wasn’t it, Pru thought, and took a chance that Rosette’s even temper would continue. “It’s good of Damien to do all this.”

  “It was for Twyla.”

  “I suppose—but he could’ve pulled out of the entire thing after she was killed. Instead, he said he wanted to see it to the end—for you.”

  Rosette cut her eyes at Pru. “We haven’t seen each other since he left Texas—haven’t even been in touch. But he was always a good brother-in-law. Very considerate. Kind.”

  “Damien hasn’t been your brother-in-law for years and years,” Pru said.

  Rosette ignored that statement. “It’s nearly eight o’clock. Will they still let us in?” she asked as they arrived at the London gate.

  Pru allowed her this dodge as her phone buzzed. A text from Christopher: Do nothing until I return.

  Right, she replied. Only going to collect proof.

  “You don’t have much time left,” the guard said, looking closely at their work passes. “Are you having a crew meeting or something?”

  “No, only a…review of our progress,” Pru said.

  She and Rosette picked up the pace as they walked down Eastern Avenue—the guard was right, work hours were nearing an end—as evidenced by the few people about, mostly heading for the exit. The grounds looked as if the show could open any minute—apart from a few pieces of heavy equipment left on-site. The Aussies had yet to move their crane—it sat huddled on the roadway next to the tall grasses in “Welcome to Oz,” the extended arm with bucket folded down upon itself as a heron draws its head into its shoulders.

  “Why did he think the two of us would have a crew meeting?” Rosette asked.

  Pru shrugged. Their crew might be small, but not this small.

  As they neared the ARGS garden, a feeling of dread, like an undertow, pulled at Pru, drawing her into despair despite the initial excitement of their mission. The sun hung low in the sky—perhaps it was the dropping light that took away the few qualities that made it a garden—or almost one—and left it only as a place of death. She imagined Twyla confronting Forde that evening— about his idea to create and market an engineered seed that would endanger so much. Twyla had taken a st
and against it. And how had Forde reacted? He’d grabbed her by the throat.

  They stood across the road from the Rock Garden Bank, to take in the quiet scene. Rosette thought Twyla had physical proof. What was it? Did Twyla have time to hide it away? And if so, where would she have put it?

  “Proof, proof,” Pru chanted under her breath, breaking through her gloom. “In the shed?”

  “A good place to start,” Rosette agreed, and they got at it.

  Despite the piles of leftovers that had accumulated so quickly, there remained plenty of room in the shed for the two of them to move about. They kept the door open to let in the waning light as they started in. Pru shook out every single work glove she could find. She even located a spare pair of steel-toed boots and felt round in the toes, hoping to find more than a spider.

  Rosette examined all the waterproofs, and then hung them neatly on the pegs—even the ones that had been in a heap on the floor to begin with. They searched nursery pots, tools, crevices between boards—and found nothing.

  “I don’t know.” Pru frowned. “Twyla said it was safe, but maybe he found it after all. There was nothing else on-site that early, just this shed. Not even the wall.” Pru took such a sharp breath it hurt. “The wall!”

  Chiv wouldn’t let anyone near the tail end of the wall—he had told Pru he’d caught Twyla building it. The last thing she’d touched, and he was so proud that she had remembered what he’d taught her. And the best-built dry stone walls might house all sorts of surprises—lockets, diaries, proof of underhanded doings that would ruin the ecological landscape of an earthly treasure. Chiv might’ve preserved evidence without even realizing it.

  Pru pulled Rosette out the door of the shed and to the end of the serpentine wall. It was fine construction, too bad they had to dismantle it, but Pru’s strong sense of being right overcame the need to make a shrine of Twyla’s last work.