Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3)

by Marty Wingate

  Pru moved her head in a figure-eight pattern—something between a nod and a shake. “We aren’t…quite there yet.” Now the details of blue satin sash and puffy sleeves seemed trivial.

  “You know, as far as I’m concerned, you could stand up there with nothing on at all.” He narrowed his eyes. “With your hair up. Wearing high heels.” He slipped the skinny strap of her nightgown off her shoulder.

  “And would I carry flowers?” she whispered.

  He leaned over, his lips nuzzling her bare shoulder. “You don’t need to. You always smell like flowers, anyway. I don’t know how you do that.”

  “Don’t you?” she asked, cocking her head so that he could reach behind her ear. “I sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and bathe in a tubful of petals.” He paused and watched her without speaking. “Perhaps you could join me,” she suggested, “and we could have the ceremony there.” She edged closer until their lips almost touched.

  “Wait,” he said. “Do you have cowboy boots?”

  Chapter 18

  It was cold cereal for breakfast. With one meal accounted for, Pru scribbled down a shopping list while she thought about talking with Alastair—if she could find him.

  “Would you like to see the garden this morning?” she asked Christopher. It was as if her mind ran on separate rail lines—one line concerned with Iain’s death and what might happen to her and her job, and the other given over to her joy at Christopher’s presence.

  “I’ll do the shopping this morning,” he said, pocketing her list. “Why don’t I meet you for lunch?”

  A bright spot shone in the middle of the day. “Yes, lunch. At the Terrace Café at Inverleith House. It’s right in the middle of the garden.” She gasped and grabbed his wrist. “We can meet Alan while you’re here. This is perfect!” Reality made an abrupt appearance as she remembered he came to Edinburgh because of Iain’s death. “No, I don’t mean that, it’s just that…I’m happy to see you.”

  —

  No sign of Mrs. Murchie, but Pru would stop later and invite her to tea—and to meet Christopher. Pru hoped for a quick and quiet journey to her office, but when she walked through the west gate and into the visitors’ center, she saw Victoria at the information desk, checking her ever-present clipboard.

  “Pru,” she said, striding over and putting a hand on her arm as if in fear that Pru would run off. “Are you all right?” she asked, her eyes cutting left and right. “We were all very concerned when we heard that the police had spoken with you.”

  “Yes, thanks, I’m fine.” But wait. “Did the police talk with you?”

  “A police constable stopped by yesterday, midday, but I was surrounded by twenty children all holding handfuls of worms for our compost lesson—one little girl kept stuffing them down the boys’ shirts. The policeman said he would ring me later this week.”

  So, Victoria didn’t get escorted to the police station. But really, what had she to do with Iain? “Well, I’m just off to talk with Alastair.” Pru tugged her arm away from Victoria’s grip. “Have you seen him this morning?”

  “Oh, you know Alastair,” Victoria said, “you see him only when he wants to be seen.”

  Pru nodded in agreement and left to walk across the gardens to his office. Murdo—his morning assignment appeared to be changing the bin liners in the recycling containers—called to her. “Pru? Are you all right?”

  Was this how it was going to be? She took a sharp right to walk closer, so he wouldn’t shout his concern to the world.

  “Yes, Murdo, I’m fine. Really.”

  “The police didn’t throw you in the nick, did they? Did they treat you all right? They weren’t accusing you of…well, you know. How could they? I’d say Mr. Blackwell had more than one enemy.” He leaned in, his eyes wide and his voice barely audible.

  “I wasn’t Iain’s enemy, Murdo. They wanted to ask me about him because we worked together. That’s all. I’m sure the police are talking with many people at the garden.”

  “It’s verra poor treatment for someone like you, and we won’t stand for it,” he said, lifting his chin.

  “Thank you, Murdo, I appreciate your support. I’d best be on my way.” She walked off, but turned back to ask if he’d seen Alastair. Like an alcoholic taking a nip when no one was looking, Murdo glanced around and pulled the black notebook out of his pocket. Curiosity overcame Pru at last. She walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder, trying to decipher the neat rows of writing she’d noticed before. She had time to see nothing more than a few numbers and letters—“9.25PPWG”—before he noticed her and snapped the book shut, almost snapping her nose in with it.

  “Have you seen Alastair?” she asked.

  “No,” he said with a blank face. “I have not.”

  —

  She crept up to Alastair’s door as if stalking a rare bird that would take flight at the first sign of danger. His door was ajar, and he worked quietly at his desk.

  “Alastair?” She gave a little knock, just to be official.

  “Pru, come in, please. I intended to stop by and see you today.” An air of concern dampened Alastair’s usual jovial demeanor. “I’m so sorry about yesterday—why the police thought they needed to take you away from the garden just to ask a few questions, well, I don’t understand it.”

  Pru sat in the chair across the desk from him and decided to say nothing about Saskia reporting Pru’s argument to the police; she didn’t want to get the young woman in trouble. “Have they questioned you?” she asked. “Did they ask you about Iain?”

  “A constable came by and went office to office yesterday,” he said. “I answered his questions, although I had little to offer. I was out most of the day on Monday.” So, Pru thought, although the rest of the staff seemed to have dealt with a uniform officer on-site, she got the full-meal deal in an interview room with an inspector.

  “Alastair, why did you choose me for this project when Iain obviously knew it inside and out?”

  She had caught him off guard, and for a moment he didn’t reply, but sat with his mouth slightly open. “But, Pru”—recovered, he spoke in a rush—“how can you say that? You were an excellent choice. Just look what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

  How did he know what she had accomplished—she could never find him to fill him in. “Iain made the occasional comment”—there’s an understatement—“about how I got the job. He seemed to think I bought my way in. Why would he think that?”

  “Iain misspoke,” Alastair said in a clipped voice. “It was inappropriate of him to think he could refer to arrangements that had nothing to do with him.”

  “Arrangements?”

  “No, no, not arrangements. Proceedings. Policy. It was none of his business.” Alastair rose abruptly and a magazine slid out of his lap and landed on the floor under the desk. Pru bent down to pick it up.

  “At Home in Canberra—your guide to property and estate agents,” she read aloud. “Weren’t you and your wife on holiday in Australia? Are you thinking of moving?”

  “Dreaming,” Alastair said as he smiled and took the glossy from her, slipping it into a drawer. “Just dreaming. How could I leave? The job market in Australia is fierce.”

  —

  The four walls of her office waited for her like a jail cell. She must stay focused—if nothing else, to be ready for Saskia that afternoon. Reread the new journal, examine letters, chase down plant descriptions. Iain had seemed concerned about that fuchsia Mr. Menzies wrote up. Pru pulled out her phone.

  Lawlor Dale at Kew had no news for her and little time to talk. Pru tried to be helpful and suggested looking for the lost letters—for she could see them now, turned sepia with age and tied together with a length of black ribbon—in the correspondence of a former student of Banks.

  The phone call had distracted her only momentarily—her thoughts turned immediately back to Iain. Who would want to kill him? Why does anyone kill? Revenge, jealousy, money, sex—that had been
the topic for an idle discussion she’d had with Christopher months ago on a snowy winter’s day as they’d huddled together in front of a fire and looked back on her marginal involvement in two deaths.

  Who would gain by Iain’s death? Her limited circle of acquaintances at the garden wouldn’t allow Pru to speculate too far; still, she began a mental list of the only people she knew. Alastair, who didn’t want Iain in charge of the Menzies project. Why hadn’t he trusted Iain with the document? Murdo, whom Iain treated poorly in public. Ever-present Murdo seemed to be always watching her. Or had he been watching Iain? And Victoria? Did she harbor secret feelings for the unattainable Iain? Could Iain’s partner be a suspect? That stretched her imagination too far—Pru had never met Iain’s partner. She sighed.

  She closed her eyes. Revenge, jealousy—she fit those categories. She had the most to lose if Iain had gained control of the project. Iain had accused her of trying to buy her reputation—a loud accusation in the presence of others. No wonder the police took her down to the station for questioning. Did she remain the prime suspect, or were they “pursuing other lines of inquiry?” They ought to—after all, she was innocent. Perhaps she had better begin to ask a few questions herself. Here at the garden, she might be able to find out more than the police.

  She stood and stretched, casting off imaginings and suppositions. For now, she would get to work on her real job.

  —

  Not long before lunch, Christopher appeared at her open door.

  “You must’ve asked for directions,” she said, rising to greet him. “How else could you have found me?”

  “I didn’t need to ask,” he replied. “As I walked along that massive hedge, a fellow came up and asked if I needed help. I didn’t realize I looked lost. He knew exactly where you were, though, and pointed me here.”

  “A gardener?” Christopher nodded. “Probably Murdo,” she said. “He seems to be in everyone’s business.” She took her coat off the hook and waved around the room. “Here’s the office. Not much to see. We’ll take the long way to lunch, and I can show you this little spot I’ve found with Mr. Menzies’s beech. It’s a lovely day.” For early spring in Edinburgh.

  At the café, the lunch crowd forced them to decide between sharing a table or braving the chill on the sunny terrace—they chose the terrace and sat as far from the smokers as possible.

  “You found the shops?” Pru asked, dipping a piece of bread into her soup—curried lentil.

  “I didn’t go to the shops,” Christopher said, picking up his beef sandwich. “I went back to talk with Inspector Blakie.”

  Pru paused with her soggy bread in midair. “Why? Do I have to go back to the station? I don’t know what else I can tell them. Am I still a suspect?”

  “I don’t want you to worry about that,” he said, covering her free hand with his. “It’s a process. They will look into every detail of the day and Blackwell’s life to find clues. It isn’t you alone.”

  “So far it feels like it’s just me. What did you talk to the inspector about?”

  “Yesterday,” Christopher said, “he mentioned a phone call he’d received on your behalf.”

  “From you?”

  “No, I didn’t phone. Whomever it was, Blakie didn’t like it. He said something about being strong-armed and”—Christopher frowned—“something about you being from Texas.”

  “He thinks because I’m from Texas I could kill someone?” Pru’s voice rose in alarm. “It isn’t the Wild West.” She took a breath. “Is that why you asked Marcus if he rang the police here?”

  Christopher nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t him and Blakie wouldn’t say who it was. At least, not yet. I think he’ll tell me more—I’ve offered to help him with some background information on another case he has—one with ties to London.” He paused before taking a bite of his sandwich. “He’s retiring soon—in a fortnight.”

  “Is he?” Pru asked. “And what does that mean to the case?”

  “That he’s either quite eager to wrap it up or will walk away regardless. I very much believe it’s the latter.”

  The chill and damp from the bench had seeped through her trousers, and she gave a thought to her bag, sitting on the flagstone at her feet, in its perpetual open state. She picked it up and set it next to her, rearranging its contents and burying her small purse farther into its recesses. She shouldn’t leave her bag open all the time, she knew it. Someone could reach in and…

  Pru frowned. “Why wasn’t he mugged?”

  Christopher raised his eyebrows.

  “Why don’t they think Iain was mugged?” she asked. “The police seemed to go directly past the possibility of a random attack and straight to me. Why?”

  He gave her an appraising look. “Why indeed? Good work, Ms. Parke.”

  Ooh, she loved it when they played policeman and witness. “Thank you, Inspector,” she said.

  Pru felt as if she were opening and closing the cupboards in her brain in this guessing game of who killed Iain, and when she opened the next one, she found a potted lemon tree, its terra-cotta smashed.

  “I forgot to tell you this,” she said. “Truly, I forgot.” She related the story of the glasshouse accident in great detail, even her attempt to climb the stairs. “Iain asked if I’d seen anyone on the catwalk, but I hadn’t. And then we learned that someone had been up there working—although I don’t think we ever got a name. It was an accident, but I should’ve told you.”

  Christopher looked at her for a long moment. He took her hand across the table as if to reassure himself she was all right. “Did you tell Duncan?”

  She shook her head. “But I will. First thing.”

  “Hiya, Pru.” Murdo, the bad penny, turned up at their table with the handle of a spade resting on his shoulder. He looked at Christopher expectantly.

  “Christopher, this is Murdo Trotter. Murdo, Christopher Pearse. Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse.”

  “Are you part of the investigation into Mr. Blackwell’s death, sir?” Murdo’s voice was low, conspiratorial.

  “Christopher works for the Met. In London.”

  “Trotter!” A crew had started working just below the terrace on the foundation plantings around the house.

  “Right,” Murdo called and looked back at Pru. “We’re digging everything out—that’s one thing they’ll let me do. See you, Pru. Sir.” He nodded at Christopher.

  Pru smiled as Murdo hopped down into the bed and began hacking at the roots of a boxwood. “Well, he seems happy with his lot.” She checked her phone. “Almost time for Saskia. I finish at four.”

  “Right,” he said as they stood, “I’m off to the shops.”

  “Chicken,” she said. “Remember, I can roast a chicken.” It was the one dish she had mastered.

  “Yes.” He kissed her. “I remember.”

  Chapter 19

  Pru waited until the afternoon to put in another call to Lawlor Dale at Kew. In this message, she suggested he look into any letters between Banks and the Linnean Society—he could’ve written about naming plants. Might there be a mention of Mr. Menzies there?

  She sighed as she pushed aside Mr. Menzies’s account of the dinner in Santiago and a copy of the first catalog listing of the monkey puzzle tree to make room for the mug of tea Saskia handed her. Her assistant leaned over, neatened the stack, and placed it at the corner of the desk.

  “And so, the police let you go? You aren’t really a suspect?”

  “I hope they’re finished with me,” Pru said, “but Christopher says that everyone’s a suspect to begin with. The police eliminate people as suspects the more they find out about the victim and what happened. Clues, it’s all down to clues and building a case.”

  “Clues, you mean fingerprints? The murder weapon?”

  “And a motive. Opportunity—the bridge on Glenogle can have its quiet moments, but I’m surprised there was absolutely no one around to see. My neighbor Mrs. Murchie is the one who found Iain. And you fou
nd her.”

  “I was working in the demonstration garden all afternoon—with that Murdo.” Saskia shook her head. “He’s a useless piece of work. Since I finished near the west gate, I thought I’d walk around and down Glenogle to catch my bus. And then I saw your friend. She wasn’t thinking straight. I’m glad I was there to help her.”

  Yes, Pru thought. When a clear head was called for, you could do no better than Saskia.

  —

  Pru rang Lydia when she got home—who knows what Marcus had told her—to let her know all was well. As well as could be expected. “Are you in danger?” Lydia asked. No, it had nothing to do with her. “Oh really, and what were you doing at the police station, then?” Routine questioning, Pru explained. Lydia ended their conversation with “Would you please tell Marcus that Krystal wants to know why he hasn’t emailed her in the last three minutes?” Pru laughed. She didn’t think she’d be seeing much of Marcus, she said. Perhaps Krystal could track him down herself.

  After Lydia, Pru rang Jo, just in case she might see something on the news. “Where’s Christopher?” Jo asked.

  “Here, he’s here with me through the weekend,” Pru reported.

  “Then it’s all right.”

  “Jo, I’m going to ring Alan. With Christopher here, perhaps we can both meet him.”

  A moment of silence on the other end of the line, followed by Jo, slightly breathless, saying, “You’ll ring me after, won’t you? Just to let me know how it goes.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now,” Jo said, and Pru could hear Jo’s business voice take over, “I want you to check your email while we talk. I’ve sent you a photo of a dress.”

  At the mention of “dress,” a tingle ran up Pru’s spine. “Jo, have you found a dress for me?” She set her laptop on the coffee table and logged on.

  “I just want you to see…”

  “Oh my God, it’s beautiful. That’s my dress? I love it.” The photo showed a woman about Pru’s age wearing a knee-length satin dress in an antique pink with three-quarter sleeves, a V-neck, and a soft shirred detail down the side.