The Bluebonnet Betrayal (25 page)

“Sail above the bluebonnets! Sweetie's son-in-law has a friend who owns a hot-air balloon and has offered to give us a bird's-eye view of the incredible wildflowers along Highway 130. Who's in?”

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

Pru floated high up in the air, out of reach, far out of reach of anyone. It was a dream she'd had occasionally all her life—and she dreaded its recurrence. Each time, she would drift along and see the ground below her shift and roll. Her parents and friends would stretch their arms up as if to save her. This time, instead of being carried along on some invisible magic carpet, she lay stationary on her back, looking up at a dark sky with a few meager stars. Not a country sky—so not at Greenoak in Hampshire. And she was awake—she could tell because her head hurt. She rolled onto her right side and felt cold metal on her cheek. Now ahead of her—beyond two metal bars close to her face—arose a black hole with a massive ghostly white blob behind it.

A jerk and a shudder, and she shot up another few inches—whatever floor she rested on tilted, and she slid toward an edge beyond which was nothing. Awake, but still in a nightmare somewhere high up in the sky. Her left hand went to grab one of the metal bars, but when she did a searing pain shot up her forearm and she cried out.

“Ah, so, awake, are you?”

Looking down was forbidden—it only made things worse—but Pru forced herself to do it. Forde stood far below her, safe and stable on the ground. Forde, Rosette, Twyla—these images fought through the cloud of vagueness in her brain until she remembered it all, knew where she was, and realized her predicament. She had taken an unsolicited ride up in the Aussies' crane, and now her life dangled precariously in the air.

Her right hand, trapped under her body but with a mind of its own, began to wiggle itself free and move an inch at a time until it took hold of one of the upright metal bars that surrounded the crane's bucket.
I'm in a cage,
she told herself.
Surely I am safe in a cage?

The crane shuddered again, causing her to break out in a cold sweat as the world rocked and rolled. The nausea swept through her, causing her stomach to roil. She tilted her head over the edge just in time.

“Ahh!” Forde yelled as she showered him with vomit.

Pru panted and coughed. Her head hurt, her hand throbbed, but at least her stomach grew quiet. She heard a hammering of metal upon metal and the crane vibrated violently and lurched again, throwing her against the side of the cage. She would slip through the bars, she would slip through and fall to her death. She whimpered, wishing it would just be over.

“There now, you're both sorted,” Forde said. Pru expected he was smugly brushing his hands off. “You won't be going anywhere. I can have a good look for that flash drive now—and it had better be where you say it is. And that'll be the end of it. And you.”

Is that what he said?
Pru thought. She couldn't hear properly because now a roaring had started up in her ears, as if she were in a wind tunnel, and it drowned out Forde and those other voices. She lay gazing at the sky, wishing for quiet.

Other voices? The roaring subsided and her wits returned—Pru could hear several voices shouting, including Forde's. She dared a glimpse and saw blue lights flashing and people, lots of them, swarming on the ground below, closing in on Forde. He ran, and a short figure leapt at and tackled him, and they both crashed onto the spilled pile of stones in the ARGS garden. A clear thought came to her—DS Chalk. Yes, rugby for sure.

When the ground began to spin below her, she shifted her gaze to look straight ahead. Another voice caught her ear and embraced her heart in hope—she heard Christopher call her name. Did he know she was there—could he see her hand gripping the metal bar? In her immobile state she could do little to call attention to herself—she certainly couldn't outshout what sounded like the entire London police force. She took a few deep breaths, gathering her strength, and waited for a pause in the commotion.

“Pru?” Christopher called again, desperately.

With all the energy and the last iota of courage she had, she looked down at him, her right cheek still firmly resting on the metal floor of the bucket.

“Hello.” A tiny voice, but all she had. But it grew louder instantly when the crane shuddered and she cried out.

“Hold up,” Christopher called, and the shudder ceased. He was magic, she thought idly. Would they have to send the fire brigade up to rescue her, like a cat out on the limb of a tree? She almost laughed at that, and felt a tiny flicker of warmth ignite inside her.

“He's buggered the gearbox,” another voice said, and a general discussion began, most of which was lost to her. She stared up at the sky and counted stars—seven of them, she thought.

“Pru,” Christopher said.

“Yes?” She wiggled a finger.

“Are you hurt?”

“No—well, yes. My left hand.”
And my head. And my back feels as if it's been used as a punching bag.

“We can get a ladder and one of us will run up and help her climb down,” a voice said. Chalk.

“No,” Christopher replied. “No ladder.”
Certainly not
. “Pru, I'm right here, I'm only going to step away.”

To ring the fire brigade, no doubt. Pru considered her options. If they brought a net or one of those bouncy tarps, or whatever it was they used, would she be able to jump out of the bucket and fall through the air to safety?

No, she would not. She thought they'd probably need to build a floor out from the bucket where she lay, and also an enclosed staircase so she could walk down in proper fashion. They'd better hop to it.

A minute later, Christopher said, “There's another crane on the grounds and they are bringing it over. Pru, I'll come up in it and get you.”

“Thank you,” she replied. It would still mean movement on her part, and she wasn't sure she could do it, but another, more pressing issue than her fear of heights had occurred to her. “Christopher?”

“Yes?”

“Did you find Rosette?”

“Is she here?”

She gave him the sketchy highlights—really only a few words and a couple of phrases—and heard a discussion ensue. She didn't catch what was said, and didn't care to. It was enough to think about Rosette lying in shock or unconscious in the dark with a crushed foot, and how Pru's own situation was nothing in comparison, and so the least she could do would be to dig up a bit of courage herself.

Pru held on to that attitude, counting stars, while she waited for the second crane to arrive. After an eternity, Christopher appeared, rising up as a vision next to her. He strapped the two buckets together, climbed into hers, and helped her up, guiding her legs as she climbed into his crane. She kept her head buried in his chest and her left forearm propped on his shoulder; her stomach tied itself into a knot as they descended. Christopher held tight.

“French has found Rosette,” he reported. “She'd almost made it to the London gate, except for one last hill. She's conscious, but just barely. She mumbled something about only resting for a moment.” Good—one bit of relief, knowing Rosette had held it together. “The ambulance is on its way to her. We can leave now,” he said, “go to emergency about your wrist.” She murmured into his jacket, just to let him know she was listening.

When they alit, she climbed out with Christopher's aid and stepped into a changed landscape. Night had turned to day—security lights, police lights, headlights from the panda cars, and a van painted with the same yellow and blue squares. They had parked on the roadway, just as lorries parked to deliver plants for the gardens. Pru's vision had stabilized along with her equilibrium, but that could not be counted a blessing as the first thing that came into clear view was the demolition site formerly known as the ARGS garden.

“ARGS Study Group #5 will hear Ivory Braswell talk on The Heartbreak of Gardening—What to Do When You Lose Your Favorite Angel's Trumpet. All members are invited.”

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

The wall lay in ruins. She and Forde had crashed through it and thrashed round enough that they had opened a great gap in the middle and scattered stones across the site. They had knocked the shed off its foundation, and it slumped, listing to one side. Police crawled over the area, taking down what had remained of the wall and emptying out the shed. Two others lifted the grating from over the reservoir and a uniform stepped down to troll the shallow water, as if fishing.

“Oh God,” Pru moaned as her legs threatened to give out beneath her. Christopher grabbed her, and she said, “I'm all right, just let me sit down for a moment.” He guided her to a boulder that jutted out from the Aussies' display and she sank down upon it with Christopher next to her. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek and felt something stuck to her skin. She looked at Christopher's shirt where she'd buried her face. Of course—she'd been resting her cheek in her own vomit. “Lovely,” she muttered as she reached over and tried to wipe it away.

“Here you are,” Christopher said, pulling out his handkerchief. “I'd say most of it landed on Forde—you've quite good aim.”

Pru laughed, perhaps a little too loudly, but her emotions—happy, sad, fearful—had been shoved up into the stratosphere.

He nodded to her wrist, swollen as big as a softball, and asked, “Did he do that?”

“No,” Pru said, although she couldn't quite remember all the details. “It probably happened when I tripped and fell.”

The sleeve of her shirt had been neatly sliced with the secateurs—Christopher carefully looked inside, but Pru could see only a small cut and little blood. “Yes, he did do that.”

“And this,” Christopher said, and lightly touched a place on her forehead.

“Mmm. I lost consciousness for—I don't know, not long. But long enough for Forde to put me in that crane.” Pru searched each of the faces on-site. “Have they taken him away?”

“They will do. He's in the minivan.”

Pru squinted her eyes at the van's dark windows, wondering if Forde squinted back at her.

Christopher took her good hand and spread out her fingers on his knee. “What about this?” he asked.

Red knuckles, slightly swollen—she thought hard as she flexed her hand. “Oh yes, that's right—I hit him. And it hurt. Did it help?”

Christopher laughed quietly then kissed her temple. “So that's where his bloody nose came from.”

“I do what I can.” Pru could make light of it now—she needed to make light before she was overcome. But before she knew it, a sob had escaped, and she trembled for a moment before she got control of herself with a few deep breaths. “I'm okay,” she whispered. “Really.”

“Ma'am?”

Pru looked up to find one of the PCs at her elbow, holding out a takeaway cup of tea.

“Thank you,” she said, as if he'd handed her a life-giving elixir. She took a sip. It was hot and sweet, just what she needed.

The PC lingered for a moment. “It's good to see you again, Inspector Pearse.”

“Thank you, Jones, and you, too,” Christopher said. “But I'm—”

“Jones!” someone called, and Jones left.

Pru and Christopher watched the action for a moment in silence, Pru unable to tear her eyes away from the destruction.

“They're looking for the flash drive,” Christopher said. “Rosette told them she'd tried to get rid of it before Forde got to her, but wasn't quite sure where it had landed.”

“Forde wanted to be rid of any mention of Twyla's response. He killed her because she would've stopped Damien from buying BlueGreen Enterprises. Then Forde discovered Twyla had kept proof of his research and he wanted to destroy that. Even tonight, he still believed he would get Damien's money—what was he thinking?”

“He wasn't thinking,” Christopher said. “He was operating in a state of panic—not a good place from which to make decisions.”

“He had too many fires to put out—he never would've got away with it.” Pru looked at her husband. He wore his DCI face; she remembered it—firm, confident, unyielding. “Why aren't you in Hereford?” she asked.

“The question is, why did I ever leave London?” was Christopher's prompt reply. “It didn't feel right—Forde had offered you far too many details of his movements the evening Twyla was killed. Too much information—it bothered me. I had pulled off the road to talk to French about it. He'd just learned that Forde was not staying in Mayfair; rather he had a temporary room in Edgeware Road—practically the other end of the scale. Your text arrived while I sat there. I rang Teddy—he and his friend were in the other lorry. They met me, and his friend took the lorry I'd been driving. I got a car back here as soon as I could. I texted you—tried phoning, too, but your mobile was off.”

“Did you come here straightaway?”

“I rang Mrs. Miller while I was headed back, and she checked our flat. I met French at the Lamont Road house first, but no one was about. This was the next stop.”

“Forde took our phones. Did you come back in a police car?” He nodded. “We didn't know Forde had followed us here tonight—turns out he's been eavesdropping on my walks with Boris.” She left that with him a moment as she drank her tea before setting it at her feet. “I had sort of been talking through things—”

“With a dog?” Christopher asked.

“You weren't around,” she said. “Not that he's anywhere near a substitute for you.” She saw that ghost of a smile. “After you left this afternoon, I read something in the leaflet we're to be handing out during the show…” She lost track of what she was saying for a moment, but shook her head and continued. “I rang Rosette, we talked about it, and decided to look for what Twyla might've left. Rosette was determined—and so brave. You're sure she's all right?”

“Sir?” DS Chalk called to Christopher, who turned to her with a questioning look.

“Yes, go on,” she said.

The two men stood talking for a moment. Christopher took a phone call, after which he directed the uniforms over to the collection of shrubs meant for the Texas-style hedgerow. They began beating them and scraping the soil away from the stems. Despair overcame Pru and she swallowed a sob.

Well, that was it, then, she thought. She didn't even need Arthur Nottle to tell her the facts—there would be no ARGS display at the Chelsea Flower Show. They did not have the time or the workers to repair—really, rebuild—the garden. And did it matter, as they wouldn't have the bluebonnets anyway? Pru rested her forearm on her thigh; her wrist throbbed with a deep pain—a good companion to the ache in her heart.

She looked up to find both Christopher and French walking over.

“Are you all right?” French asked. She nodded. He held out his gloved hand. “Is this it?”

She looked at the flash drive and nodded again.

“Ms. Parke, there's no need for you to stay—Inspector Pearse will take you to A&E,” DCI French said.

Not even French calling Christopher “inspector” could drag her out of these depths. The end of the dream—of Twyla's dream, which had become her dream, Chiv's and Rosette's, too.

Pru slapped the pocket of her trousers. “Forde took my phone. I need it—can you get it for me?”

“He had several phones on him, and they are all being entered as evidence,” French explained.

“I have to call Damien— and Chiv and Ivory,” Pru insisted. “I need my phone—I've got all their numbers in it.”

“I'm sorry, Ms. Parke—”

“I need my phone!”
she shouted as she leapt up, in no mood for police procedure. “All right, then”—she held out her right hand to French—“let me use yours.”

“Sorry?” French said.

“You've got all their numbers,” Pru said, her voice a quaver. “Let me use your phone and I'll call them.”

“You can't seriously think I—”

“Here now.” Christopher intervened, and just in time, too, as Pru had half a mind to search French's pockets. Christopher pulled out his own mobile. “Read off their numbers to me,” he said to French. “And then you can make your calls.” He lifted his eyebrows to Pru.

“Yes,” she said to her husband. “Thank you.” To French she said, “Sorry.”

Christopher handed over his phone, primed with the necessary numbers. “I'll leave you to it. You'll need to get that seen to,” he told her, nodding to her wrist. “Soon.”

“Soon—and I'll need to give my statement. Inspector French,” she called as the two men walked back to the action. “Where are they taking Rosette?”

French told her Chelsea and Westminster Hospital and then added, “We've already heard from Mr. Woodford—he's on his way there.”

Well, then, no need to start with Damien. Pru called Ivory, who answered halfway through the first ring. She explained and then listened while Ivory told her story—they'd gone to dinner, but Damien had been distracted, eventually trying to get hold of Rosette, who did not answer. Increasingly worried, he'd phoned DCI French and learned that a search for Rosette and Pru was underway. The women had heard from Damien only a few minutes ago with the latest news.

“Are you okay, honey?” Ivory asked.

“Yes, really, fine. And I'll explain more in the morning. I don't want to keep you up.”

Ivory laughed. “We're all sitting around the kitchen table drinking tea—see what you've done to us? Okay, we'll see you first thing in the morning, ready to get this thing finished.”

Pru couldn't see any benefit to telling the Austin women about the garden at that moment—give them a decent night's sleep.

But Chiv was a different matter. Pru laid Christopher's phone on her knee and stared at it, hoping it would tell her what to do. Chiv knew nothing of what had happened—he and Iris were sleeping peacefully in Ealing with no inkling that the garden had been wrecked and the dream was ended. Should she wait and be on-site extra early in the morning, braced for the worst?

No, that wouldn't work—the first thing he'd see would be police and the telltale blue-and-white tape, and the jig would be up. He must be warned.

Chiv did a fine impression of a bark on the fifth ring. “Yeah?”

“It's Pru—I'm sorry to ring so late.”

“Pru? It's not your phone—what is it?”

She told the story as briefly and succinctly as possible. Chiv stayed silent throughout. The first words out of his mouth were “Are you all right?”

He couldn't see her nod, but it was the only sort of answer she could produce for a moment. At last, she got out something that might've sounded like “Yes.” He asked after Rosette, and she produced a more intelligible answer. When he asked, “Did they get the bugger?,” her tears continued, but she laughed, too.

“They did that.”

“Do you want me there now? I'll come if you need me.”

“Thank you. No, I'll see you in the morning.”

“We tried our best,” he reminded her.

Pru and Christopher sat in the emergency waiting room at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital. A teenager across from them held a bag of frozen green peas up to one eye, and next to Pru a young mother jiggled an unhappy and quite vocal baby. Christopher grew increasingly irritated with the length of their wait—his jaw tightened and he glared at the door leading to the treatment rooms, as if willing someone to walk through. Pru, meanwhile, counted her blessings, starting with being alive. Her mind deftly leapfrogged over the garden—or lack thereof—and she ended her list by being thankful she sat next to her husband. She set her chin on his shoulder and gazed up at him. His face softened. He pushed a strand of hair off her cheek—her hair clip long lost—cupped her face in his hand, and for a moment it didn't matter where they sat. Pru sighed.

“Did you eat that Portuguese custard tart I gave you?” she asked.

He smiled. “I did, yes. Sorry. It was quite good.”

“Mmm. I could just do with a packet of crisps. Or some of that lovely Spanish cheese they have at Fritz & Floyd. A Scotch egg would be nice. And perhaps a brandy.”

Christopher went in search of food and brought her back a Kit Kat.

At last she was called and she took Christopher with her. An X-ray revealed no breaks or severe ligament damage in her wrist, only a sprain. She pulled off her shirt and the doctor gave a passing look at the bruises on her back obtained when she fell into the wall. And her forehead?—a light concussion. In other words, Pru thought, a bump on the head. Otherwise, a sound bill of health.

They wrapped her wrist so that her fingers stuck out like little sausages, and then they dismissed her, after which she and Christopher went looking for Rosette. Damien sat near her bed. He wore a suit, his tie pulled loose and jacket unbuttoned, and he jumped up when he saw them at the door to report that she'd been sedated and would have surgery on her foot in the morning to repair the multiple breaks.

“She was so brave,” Pru whispered.

“Yes,” he agreed gravely. “She has a lot of strength. She filled in a few more details. How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine, just this.” She waved her wrist. Pru noticed Damien's glance over her shoulder. Now for it—the first confession. “Damien, this is my husband, Christopher Pearse.”

“Yes, Kit—we met, didn't we? But I don't remember that you two are married.”

“We kept that quiet,” Christopher replied. “I hope you don't mind. As I'm with the police, I was only doing a small bit of undercover work. Keeping an eye on things.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way, it took all the deviousness out of their plan and made it sound like an everyday affair.