The Bluebonnet Betrayal (17 page)

“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

Pru whirled round and caught a glimpse up the incline of DCI French on Eastern 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.

“French!”
she whispered furiously.
“French!”
In a split second he had thrown off his ARGS sweatshirt, shedding the vest at the same time, thrust them at her, and slipped into the Aussie garden. Skippy put his hand on Christopher's back and pointed up to the mountain as if giving him a tour as they strolled out of sight.

Pru kept hold of the sweatshirt but let the high-vis vest fall. She kicked it to the side, rushed forward, and met DCI French at the front of the garden. She tried to control her breathing and broke out in a coughing fit.

“Ms. Parke.” A breeze blew by and he sneezed. Pulling out a handkerchief, he asked, “Two sweatshirts?” nodding to the one she wore and the one she carried.

With the back of her hand, Pru wiped a trickle of sweat away from her forehead. “Yes, Inspector French,” she said. “Two sweatshirts. These days I'm either overheated or chilled to the bone. It's my time of life.”

She didn't take her eyes off him until she saw a bloom of pink appear on his cheeks. “Oh, well. I'm looking for…” He noticed Sweetie at the wall. “Ah, yes, there she is. Excuse me.”

Nothing like menopause to embarrass a man, Pru thought.

Dismissed, she strolled to the back of the shed and sank to the ground, still out of breath, and now also weak from the adrenaline that had coursed through her body and drained away just as fast. She emerged a few minutes later and fell into the habit she had acquired in barely a fortnight—taking roll. French gone, Forde gone. Sweetie talking with Skippy at the Aussie garden, Chiv on his phone, Christopher nowhere to be seen. Ivory and Rosette worked on the wall and KayAnn and Nell—oh no, not again, she thought. But no, here they came, coffees in hand.

Chiv approached, flushed and smiling. “Right,” he said. “We've got the lorries—two of them. They're away in Cheltenham, so I'm sending Kit and Teddy down this afternoon. They'll stay the night, load up first thing in the morning. Once they get up here and unload, they can turn right round and go back, do the same thing again.”

She looked for Christopher, a sudden desperate need to see him. “Have they already left?”

“Sorry?” Chiv asked.

“Kit and Teddy.”

“No, there they are,” Chiv said, nodding past her. “Just went after the minivan.”

The two approached. Christopher had his brown eyes homed in on her like a laser beam. She tried to wipe the distress off her face, but not soon enough.

“Chiv told me you're going after the plants—that's fantastic,” she said.

“Would you give me a hand before I go?” Christopher asked her. “I'd like to get the rest of the boards out of the pavilion.”

“Sure.”

They set off, and Christopher spoke without looking at her.

“Overnight? I don't want to leave you alone right now.”

He wasn't one of those husbands who had to keep an eye on his wife at all times—he was one of those detectives trained to realize that trouble could occur at the most unlikely moment and he didn't trust to the fates enough to be too far away.

“We need those plants,” she insisted.

They'd stepped just inside the pavilion. Workers were at the opposite corner—too far to notice when he grabbed her hand and squeezed.

“You won't go any further with this while I'm away, will you?”

“I'll be safe,” she said. That wasn't an answer—she knew it and she knew he knew it. “All I'm going to do is have that chat with Rosette.” She leaned toward him. “And I'll see you tomorrow.”

Not even a kiss goodbye—Pru walked out to the road to watch Kit and Teddy leave. Kit would stop at his digs to pack the few things a man would need for an overnight and then meet Teddy in Ealing. She squinted at their diminishing forms, and at the last second, before they were swallowed by the crowd, she saw Christopher turn and give her a wave.

This is a good thing. They did, after all, have a garden to build. And only five more days in which to build it. It would've been better, of course, if they'd had a chance to talk through a few things. Roddy's new design, everyone's reaction.

Pru took a step back before she turned, stepping right onto someone else's steel toe.

Skippy. Yes, they should've talked about Skippy.

The Aussie never looked this tall from a distance—close up he towered over her, his full head of brown hair edged with a halo from the sun behind him.

“Sorry,” she said. He didn't seem inclined to move, and so she took a step to the side. He stepped, too.

“You all right now?” he asked. “Recovered from your—what was that?”

What, indeed? What should she say? What had Christopher said? Skippy stood waiting, blocking out the light.

“I'm fine,” she said brightly. “It's really nothing. A private matter. Thanks for your help, though.”

“That copper friend of yours—Kit—where'd he go?”

“Copper? Kit?” A high-pitched giggle bubbled out of her mouth before she could stop it. “That's a good one. Whatever made you think that?”

Skippy smiled. “Let's just say I've got experience.”

Just what sort of experience?
Pru longed to ask. A fellow wheeled a plant trolley past them, reminding Pru that she and Skippy stood in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. Skippy didn't seem to care, and his size no doubt led workers to treat them as an island in the stream.

“When Kit first arrived,” Skippy continued, “I thought he was part of the murder investigation. But if he was, why would he run from the DCI? And if he wasn't, what was going on? Maybe the two of you are in this together, carrying out your own investigation, and you don't want the police to know. If that's the case”—Skippy smiled—“it would be too bad if they found out.”

Icy fear swept over Pru. She couldn't swallow. “Is that a threat?” she managed to ask in a hoarse whisper. She tried to peer round him—hadn't anyone at the garden noticed she'd gone missing?

“I want you to do something for me,” he said.

“Oh, so not a threat—blackmail.” Anger joined the fear, and they churned inside her, preventing her from thinking straight. Should she scream? If she tried to get away, would he follow her, stalking her all the way to Chiswick?
No,
she thought,
I don't have to take this
. She would come clean to Chiv and the rest of them before she gave in to this thug.

“The police want to see Sweetie at the station this afternoon.” Skippy dropped his smile. “I want you to go with her.”

Pru waited for the other shoe to drop, but he said nothing else. “That's it? You want me to be an escort? Wait—why do the police want to see her?” Pru had hoped their statements on that first morning had been enough. A callback, as she well knew, could be bad news.

“She won't say, but she's upset,” Skippy said, sticking his hands in the pockets of his denims. He frowned. “I offered to go with her, but she said no, it was her fault, she'd go alone. I don't want her to be alone, she should have someone with her.”

Pru laughed in relief. There you are, then. Don't be too hasty to judge. Yes, he's big and he can be a bit scary—but he's really a softie. “Of course I'll go with her. I'm sure it's nothing.” She scanned the garden site. “Where is she?”

“Went off to the canteen. I told her to stay put until you got there.”

Pru's eyebrows rose. “You were awfully sure of yourself.” The smile returned to his face. “Right,” she said. “I'll just let Chiv know.” Skippy stepped aside for her, and as she passed him she asked, “And so, you won't need to mention the earlier events to anyone?”

“What events?”

“A bluebonnet changes its spots—how accommodating of our little friend! Once a bluebonnet is pollinated, the white spot on the spur turns purple. Bees can see white, but purple not so much—and so they don't waste their time. Way to propagate the species, bluebonnet!”

New Members' Corner, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

The garden looked like a true Texas ghost town—not a soul to be seen—until Pru noticed the shed door open. Chiv walked out.

“Is everyone at lunch?” she asked. He gave her half a nod. “Listen, Chiv,” and she explained about Sweetie.

“Is she in trouble?” he asked.

“No, I'm sure it's nothing. But I thought I'd go along with her, just for company.”

“Yeah.”

Right, contractor approved of her field trip.

“Great news about the lorries,” she said. Chiv's eyebrows answered. “Not so great news about the flowers.” He offered nothing. “Is it true? We'll have no bluebonnets?”

Chiv turned his back to her and reached for a crowbar as he said, “MacWeeks is digging himself into one massive hole. I say we let him.”

What sort of answer was that? But Pru had other things on her mind—and the advantage of the moment. She took a deep breath. And then she took another one. And then she took a leap.

“Chiv, did you see Twyla when she arrived?”

She waited. He didn't move, and after a full minute she thought she'd try again, but at last he dropped the crowbar on the ground and ran a hand through his lank gray curls.

“She sent me a text that afternoon. She'd landed and wanted to stop by here later. ‘Come now,' I said, but she wanted to wait until everyone had left for the day. I left, too, but I came back—and found her working on the wall.” He smiled at the far end of the serpentine wall, the one bit that had been built first, the part Pru had thought was Chiv's work. “ ‘Look now,' she said. ‘I remember what you taught me.' We sat there and talked. I couldn't believe it—it was as if all those years between had never happened—no MacWeeks, no Woodford.”

No Iris
.

“I knew she would stay this time. Stay with me. I said to her I wouldn't pretend, that I would go that minute and tell Iris. ‘No,' Twyla said, ‘let's wait. Let's do this first.' Wait.” He spat the word out. “Everyone's always telling me to wait, and what good has that ever done?”

“This was before I came back?”

Chiv nodded. “I left her here, but it was all right, because I knew I'd see her the next day.” His face darkened, and Pru saw his jaw clench.

“Did you see Iris when you got back to your digs?”

“This isn't about Iris.”

The atmosphere grew thick and uncomfortable, but Pru pressed on. “The first thing you said the morning we found Twyla was ‘Where's Iris?' ”

“You'd better go,” Chiv said, not looking at her. “See about Sweetie.”

“Which gate did you leave by when you left Twyla?”

“Bull Ring,” Chiv replied, his face relaxing. “I walked for ages—along the Embankment, up roads. I finally got on the Tube at Turnham Green. I was afraid if I'd gone straight back, I'd say something to Iris, no matter how Twyla wanted to play it.”

“You've told the police all this, haven't you?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer. “You told them you saw her?”

Chiv shook his head. Pru heaved a great sigh.

“What would it have mattered?” he asked. “She was alive the last time I saw her, that's all I know. And I didn't want Iris to find out.”

What else did French not know, Pru wondered as she went to find Sweetie in the exhibitors' marquee. What did French know that she and Christopher didn't? Christopher saw his former sergeant, now detective chief inspector, as competitive and competent, but Pru saw him as an obstinate young fellow who thought he needed to prove himself to his former boss. She wished she could give him a piece of her mind.

Pru located Sweetie sitting alone at the end of a table and held up a finger to indicate she'd be right there. Once she had her sandwich and tea, she sat down and ripped open the package of her ham and cheese. Sweetie was all furrowed brows and down-turned mouth, staring at a cup of coffee and a half-eaten piece of shortbread in front of her.

“I talked with Skippy,” Pru said. Hope replaced most of Sweetie's morose expression. “And I'm happy to go along with you to the station.”

Sweetie reached over and squeezed Pru's hand so tightly that a blob of mustard squished out of her sandwich. “Oh, that's so nice of you. Skippy wanted to go, but I didn't want him to…get involved. And you're so good with all this.”

“What time do you need to be there?” Pru asked, taking a bite and licking the mustard off her finger.

“In about fifteen minutes.”

Mid-chew, Pru scooped up her tea and sandwich, and they hurried off.

Some people are multitaskers, but eating, drinking, and walking were not activities Pru cared to do at the same time.
Sit down and enjoy your meal,
her mother used to say. Even sitting on a rock in the garden constituted taking a break to Pru. Hurrying along the pavement to the police station, she finally tossed her lunch in a bin, but not before she'd sloshed a good bit of tea onto her trousers. She yearned to be sitting in the kitchen at Greenoak with a big bowl of Evelyn's beef and barley soup in front of her.

Once they'd walked into the station, Sweetie told her, “You go ahead and sit down. I'll talk to the fellow at the desk.”

Pru did as she was told and took a seat near the sliding front doors. She couldn't hear what Sweetie said, but the desk sergeant's voice came across loud and clear.

“You take a seat, ma'am, and I'll tell him.”

Sweetie's voice rose slightly in volume. “Can't I just go in?”

“No, ma'am, you'll need an escort. Take a seat.”

Sweetie sat next to Pru and began picking at her cuticles. “Look, Pru, I didn't know I'd have to wait. You don't need to stay—why don't you go on?”

Wouldn't that defeat the purpose?
Pru thought. She'd told Skippy she would be Sweetie's companion, and companion she would be.

“No, I'll stay; I don't mind.”

Sweetie cast a worried look over her shoulder to the desk sergeant.

“Is there a problem with your statement?” Pru asked. “Do you know why the inspector wants to see you?”

“Oh. Well, I'd say they want to see me because there was something I forgot to tell them about Twyla.”

“Something in general, or something specific?”

Sweetie bowed her head and mumbled, “It's pretty specific.”

The police—DCI French in particular, Pru thought—would not take kindly to anyone omitting specific pieces of information about the victim. French had given Pru a curt reply when she came in to add to her statement, to tell him she might've seen an ARGS crewmember that evening. If Sweetie's story held more detail, more leads, then what would French say?

“What is it—specifically?” she asked.

Sweetie worried her cuticle and didn't reply until at last she sighed. “Last year,” she said without raising her head, “when my husband and I split, I…didn't take it very well.” She shrugged and finally looked up. “That's putting it mildly. You see, I could tell he was seeing someone, but I wasn't sure who it was. And I sort of lost it with Twyla one night.”

“You accused Twyla of having an affair with your husband?”

“She'd been spending a lot of time with him, you see—she was designing the landscape for this new housing development of his. It was only business,” Sweetie said. “I knew that in my head, but my heart was broken and I wanted someone else to feel as hurt as I was. Later, I found out who it really was—a woman in his office. She's about twenty-three. They're married now and have a ten-month-old baby boy.” It took only an instant for Pru to do that math. “But see, the problem is, by the time I found out, I had already—” Sweetie's voice didn't peter out so much as come to an abrupt halt.

“You'd already accused Twyla,” Pru said, priming the pump for more information.

Sweetie gave the tiniest of nods. “At one of the society's meetings.” Sweetie's voice grew faint, and Pru leaned in to hear the rest. “I attacked her. Gave her a black eye. Ivory and Rosette had to drag me off, and someone—I still don't know who it was—called the police.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then dropped them into her lap.

No one could accuse Texas garden clubs of being stuffy, Pru decided.

“Twyla forgave me, of course,” Sweetie continued, “she was just that way. But now, you see, the police here must've found out from the Austin police. And now they think I murdered Twyla.” Her eyes filled with tears, which quickly overflowed their banks.

Both women plunged hands into their pockets, coming up with tissues at the same time. “The morning you found Twyla—you weren't exactly dressed for garden work. Did you meet Skippy after the theater?” Sweetie shook her head. “Didn't you go to the theater?”

“No.”

“Maybe one of the other women mentioned that to the police.”

“They wouldn't have known, because I went along to the theater first,” Sweetie said. “And the thing is, Skippy's told the police we were together and I've said it—but what if they think I've put him up to this? And now I'll have to tell him what I did to Twyla. And he'll think, not only is she older than me, she's also off her rocker. That'll be the end of that. And he's such a nice guy.”

“You told him how old you are?”

“God no,” Sweetie said, and they both laughed. “Butdon't you think he's figured that out?”

“Well, if he has, I don't think it matters to him. All I could tell about him was that he was quite concerned because you were so upset.”

That brought tears to Sweetie's eyes again, and as one who shed them freely, Pru understood these tears to be a sign of gratitude.

Over Sweetie's shoulder, Pru saw the door near the front desk open and DS Chalk come out. He spotted the two of them and said, “Ms. Finkel?”

Sweetie didn't move, but closed her eyes as her face drew up in pain.

Louder this time, as if he thought they hadn't heard. “Ima Jean Finkel?”