“What sort of dance do you teach?” Pru asked. “Show dancing?”
Sandy shook his head. “No, we teach couples dancing, all sorts—Latin, ballroom, social, country western—I’m not above a schottische.”
Pru traced the outline of the coaster with her finger. “Your classes, they must last weeks and weeks. Do they?”
She didn’t look up, but could see the smile on his face. “Not at all—we offer programs that last one or two sessions. Those are especially popular for engaged couples planning the first dance at their wedding.”
Christopher’s hand, firm on her waist, guided her about the dance floor. The music swelled—a waltz?—and they twirled round and round the room, the lights and the faces a blur as their eyes locked in a look that held the love and commitment they had promised during the ceremony…
Pru glanced up at Sandy, her face red; a nervous laugh escaped. “We aren’t taught dancing in the States,” she explained. “Not in school. When we get to be adolescents, they just shove us out onto the dance floor to flail around as best we can.”
“I hope you’ll let me know if you and your fiancé…”
“Christopher,” Pru said.
“If you and Christopher want a lesson before your wedding, I’d be happy to help.”
Pru nodded. “Thanks, I’ll talk with him. This whole wedding planning is far beyond my realm of expertise.” After a moment of silence, she came back to the reason for their pub drink—Iain. “Did Iain dance?”
Sandy smiled. “It wasn’t one of his strong suits, but it played its role. We had a mutual friend who appeared on Strictly Come Dancing, and a group of us got together in London to watch one of the programs. That’s where we met—five years ago now. He was teaching at Merrist Wood, but a long-distance relationship is hard, so a couple of years ago, he came here to the Botanics to take the post in special collections.”
Which drew Pru to the question she couldn’t shake: If it was Iain’s job, what am I doing here? “I’m enjoying my work, and I really love the Botanics,” Pru said, “but Iain knew so much about this subject. I’ve never understood why he didn’t take on the project.”
“Don’t you?” Sandy said, with one eyebrow raised. “No—sorry, it’s just that he wouldn’t talk about it, except to say that special arrangements had been made and he wasn’t in control.”
“That didn’t go over well, did it?”
“No, it didn’t.” Sandy shook his head slightly and looked down into his glass. “But that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong. We’d been having problems for months, but lately, things had grown worse. He seemed preoccupied, and I began inventing reasons in my head. I thought he was seeing someone.” Sandy glanced up. “I thought it was you.”
Pru choked as her drink went down the wrong way. “What? Me? That’s…” Well, no, not impossible. “No, Sandy, I’m sorry you thought that. Actually…we didn’t even get on very well.”
Sandy drained his martini and said, “I think I knew that—really. It’s just that Iain is…was a few years older than I am.” More than a few, Pru thought. “When he was young, it wasn’t an easy time for him to come out as gay. He’s had a few brief relationships in the past with women, and I thought…Well, really, it was much easier for me to look outside to find a reason for our problems. Sunday afternoon we started to talk, but it ended in a huge row. I shouted accusations, and he shouted denials…not our finest moment.” His voice broke.
Pru’s phone rang, and Sandy nodded toward it. “Go on—I’ll be right back.” He walked off toward the sign for the toilets as she answered.
“Pru? It’s Tamsin. Listen, thanks for the tip about Rosemary Campbell and Blackwell—although it turns out that both Campbells have alibis for that Monday afternoon. Mr. Campbell was in Glasgow, and then on a train back—plenty of CCTV for that—and Mrs. Campbell had not yet returned from Australia.”
“Good,” Pru said weakly, “I’m glad they’re in the clear.” And she meant that, really, but…“How did Rosemary seem when you spoke with her? Cooperative? Surprised? Annoyed?”
“To be questioned?” Tamsin asked. “She wasn’t best pleased. She did ask if you were the one that grassed her out, but I didn’t say.”
Whatever tiny flame of hope that still burned inside Pru—the remotest possibility of a wedding venue, Rosemary’s catering, and a cake—snuffed out. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered if you had told her,” Pru said, “she’ll know it’s me.”
“You’ve met Alexander Donnell—Blackwell’s partner?” Tamsin asked. “He’s Madame Fiona’s nephew.”
Pru looked at the empty seat across the table. “I’ve run into him.” As she said the words, it came back to her—the other time she’d seen him. It was just after her fitting—the afternoon Iain was killed. Sandy had looked distraught and hurried off around the corner toward his aunt’s dress shop.
Tamsin didn’t speak for a moment; Pru heard her exhale slowly and thought she’d probably lit a cigarette. “Has he told you where he was that afternoon?”
“No, but—he has an alibi, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve no idea—he won’t say, only that he didn’t do it. That isn’t good enough—especially as neighbors reported recent loud arguments from their flat.”
“Right, well, I’ll see what I can do.” Pru saw Sandy approaching.
“Oh, and, have you found a place for the wedding?” Tamsin asked.
“Yes,” said Pru. “And no. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Another round?” Sandy asked before he sat.
Pru nodded and said, “Thanks.” She would need another drink to try to insinuate herself into Sandy’s and Iain’s lives. When he brought the drinks over, Pru toyed with the curl of orange peel on the rim, before saying, “I remember now that we saw each other another time, outside the Botanics.”
Sandy didn’t speak, but busied himself fishing the olive out of his martini.
“We ran into each other—literally—around the corner from the dress shop. Do you recall?” she asked.
His eyes darted to her and he nodded. “I wanted to talk with Fee-Fee—she always has such a level head about her.” He smiled. “After my time in detention when I was a teen, my parents threw up their hands in despair, and Fee-Fee took me in, brought me down from Oban. I lived here in Edinburgh with her. She’s fiercely loyal to family, but very strict. I didn’t dare get into another fight with her as my guardian. And she brokered a peace with my mum and dad. Fee-Fee is the only reason we’re all still speaking.”
They’d wandered off into a different story from the one Pru intended; it was time to correct their course. After all, she’d already screwed up the chance to have her wedding catered, why not push Sandy far enough to sabotage the hope of a dance lesson, too? “That day, were you going to talk with your aunt about your argument with Iain?”
“I had walked out the evening before, after our row. I should’ve stayed and had it out with him, but instead, I ran to a friend—one well-chosen for maximum effect.” He raised a finger. “Nothing happened—it was all a show for Iain. I wanted to hurt him. I did that, didn’t I? I’ll always remember that. It’ll be my fault, forever my fault.” He took several quick breaths and blinked rapidly, but couldn’t stop a few tears from falling.
She hoped that wasn’t a confession she had just heard. “Sandy,” she said, after giving him a moment to locate his handkerchief, “did you see Iain at all that last day?” Please say no, she thought. Please have an alibi.
“You sound like that DS Duncan, Pru. Do you think I killed him?” he asked, watching her.
“Certainly not,” Pru said. “And, of course, you don’t have to tell me anything—but you must tell the police where you were that afternoon.”
“No.” His face hardened.
“But, Sandy, if you don’t tell them, you’ll remain a suspect.”
“They’ll find the person who killed him, and it won’t be necessary for me to ever say anything.”
“The pol
ice need to know,” she said.
“I won’t do it,” he shouted, his face blotched red, his blue eyes on fire. The noise in the pub subsided as heads turned toward their table.
“All right, all right,” Pru said quietly. He still had his temper, she could see.
Sandy’s voice softened, and he took a long drink of his martini. “I stayed away that night and all of Monday—until I ran off to see Fee-Fee. He wanted me gone before his wife…” His voice trailed off.
Pru reached over and touched his hand. “I’m sure he was happy to help. Isn’t that what friends are for—a listening ear when we need one?”
He relaxed and smiled. “It was a bit of a shock for him to find me standing on his front step. Not quite the image he wants the world to see of Sir Hugh Abercromby.” Sandy started at his own words; he took hold of Pru’s hand and held tight. “You won’t say anything, will you? You won’t mention his name to the police.”
Pru tugged at her hand. Who was this Sir Hugh? “Sandy, they need to know.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sandy said, with quiet emphasis on each word. “It wouldn’t serve any purpose to embarrass someone of his stature for no reason—and I don’t want my actions to reflect poorly on Iain. It’s better to say nothing. Can you promise me?”
She couldn’t and lowered her gaze. “I’m sure they’ll be discreet.”
His eyebrows flickered, and he stood to gather his coat.
They parted with few words. God, Pru thought, some people could be so stubborn. As she walked back to her flat, she rang Tamsin but had to leave a message: “It’s Pru. Give me a ring.”
She set herself a fast pace down Glenogle, letting the cold air sweep away her dismal thoughts. Just as she reached Balmoral, she met Mrs. Murchie.
“Pru, I called on you just now. I’ve a hot beef pie for my tea,” she said, holding up a brown-paper carrier bag. “Would you join me?”
Grateful for the invitation, Pru followed Mrs. Murchie up the stairs to her door. Inside, the old woman set the bag on the floor in the hall with a “Not for you, my lad,” to Prumper, whose nose had picked up a delicious smell. She untied the sky-blue wool wrap from around her neck and hung it on the one empty, twiggy peg of her scarf rack.
Prumper abandoned the bag with the pie and instead batted once or twice at the end of the scarf. He paused, paw in the air, and locked his cornflower eyes on Pru. She got the oddest sensation—as if Prumper would open his mouth and speak to her at any moment. She leaned forward to listen, but the cat returned his attention to the scarf, batting it again. One of his claws snagged a strand of wool, and when the scarf tumbled down on his head, he scampered away.
The beef pie, hearty and flavorful, filled Pru and raised her spirits. As she buttoned up her coat to leave, she asked, “You wouldn’t know of any churches Christopher and I might look into for the ceremony, would you?”
“Oh dear, I thought you’d settled on Caledonian Hall?”
“Yes, well, I had, but there may be a problem.”
“Are things still unsettled at the Botanics? It doesn’t have to do with that poor man who died, does it?” Mrs. Murchie asked.
“I suppose it does,” Pru replied. “Indirectly.”
Mrs. Murchie rested her hand on the door latch, and a frown settled on her brow. “Something keeps coming back to me, Pru, about that afternoon. There’s something wrong about it.”
Pru nodded. “I know, it must’ve been awful for you to find him there. I’m glad Saskia came upon you, so she could help.”
Mrs. Murchie shook her head, a tiny movement as if she disagreed with herself, not Pru. “Where was my Prumper? I kept thinking. I asked everyone I came across, ‘Have you seen a Siamese cat?’ ”
“And that’s when you saw Iain?” Pru didn’t care for that image at all. Poor Mrs. Murchie, already upset about her missing cat, coming upon Iain lying facedown in the Water of Leith.
“No, but…” When Pru’s phone rang, Mrs. Murchie shook her head. “No, it’s gone now—you go ahead, answer your phone. We’ll talk again.”
It was Tamsin. Better to get this over with, she thought. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, resting her hand on Mrs. Murchie’s arm for a moment before stepping out and down the road, filling the sergeant in on the latest news: Sandy’s alibi.
“The high and mighty Sir Hugh, MSP?” the sergeant said, a note of awe in her voice.
“MSP?” Pru asked.
“Member of Scottish Parliament,” Tamsin replied, but for a moment Pru lost track of the conversation. She stood at her corner where a strong, soapy scent wafted on the chill air: Fairy washing-up liquid, if she wasn’t mistaken. She glanced around the well-lit road, but saw no one.
“Well, that’ll be easy enough to check,” Tamsin continued. “There’ll be CCTV at his building. If Donnell went in and stayed in until after Blackwell was found, he’ll have his alibi whether he wants it or not. Wait’ll Blakie hears this.”
Good job, Pru—dance lessons forfeited in short order. The image of twirling round the room in Christopher’s arms faded. At least one thing remained within her control; when she got in the door, she strapped on her heels and walked.
Chapter 28
Pru stood up from her desk at the end of the morning on Wednesday and stretched, admiring her method of organizing the found journal: colored sticky notes. Shocking pink: new plant discoveries; sky blue: thinly veiled comments about Captain Vancouver’s behavior; screaming yellow: anything related to the monkey puzzle tree or the fuchsia; and lime green: suspiciously modern word usage. Saskia had been after her to come up with a system—“It would make your work so much easier.” Saskia must’ve been the perfect student.
Pru took the long way to lunch—over to the east gate, down and around by the arboretum, through the visitors’ center, where she waved at Murdo, who stood restocking the rack of postcards, and across to the demonstration garden, where she stopped flat and gazed at the enormous beech hedge, now a haze of yellow-green as leaf buds broke. Spring was upon them. She turned back to the Terrace Café to pick up a sandwich and saw Marcus sitting outside at a table, plate of food and his phone in front of him and book in hand. After hesitating a moment, she went out herself.
“You’re getting used to the weather here, if you’re sitting out on the terrace for lunch,” she said.
He looked up. “At least it’s sunny. Have a seat.”
“No, thanks,” she said, shaking her head and then nodding back toward her office. “I feel like I’m finally making progress, and I’d better keep at it.” Marcus went back to his book, but Pru didn’t move, and stood picking at the paper tab on her sandwich container.
Marcus looked up after a moment. “What?” he asked.
She perched on the edge of the bench opposite him and took a breath. Their conversation from Monday evening had been weighing down a corner of her mind. “When you proposed to me and I said no, I don’t think I explained myself well enough.”
“You cared a lot about me,” he said, “but you didn’t want to commit to a marriage when you felt like your life was leading you in a different direction.” His face revealed nothing.
“Oh God, did I say that? How sanctimonious.” She sighed. “We should’ve ended it there, you know. We shouldn’t have limped along for another year.”
Marcus watched her peel away part of her sandwich wrapper before he looked at her and said, “I’m sorry about what I did. I’m sorry about Celia. If I hadn’t done that, you might still be in Dallas.” He reached over, took the sandwich box from her, picked up her hand, and caressed it. It was a familiar touch—warm, dry, and she could feel the calluses on his fingers. She didn’t move except to arch one eyebrow. He dropped her hand and picked up his book.
They could be friends again, she was sure of it. She took the high road. “How’s the arboretum?”
Marcus kept his eyes on his book for another moment. Pru waited, and with a sigh he set it down. “We’re adding a new section to the t
rial gardens and there’s talk of renovating the camellias.”
“Where will the money come from for that?” Pru asked. Funding was an issue in any public garden.
Marcus shook his head. “The board came up with the idea of going after Buddyboy Mac.”
“God, no,” Pru said in horror. The world’s wealthiest Texan with the world’s worst taste.
“I doubt if there’s a chance we’ll get it, he’s so hepped up about this thing he’s doing over here.”
“Here? In Scotland?”
“You hadn’t heard? He’s planning some gigantic golf resort—connecting to his Scottish roots or something.”
The thought depressed Pru as she imagined acres of highland heather paved over and marble fountains at the start of every hole with copies of the Venus de Milo in the middle of sand traps.
“Where is he putting it?”
Marcus shrugged. “Scotland.” His phone rang. He glanced at the screen and back up at Pru. “I don’t need to take this.”
Pru had seen the screen: Krystal. She left him to it.
—
Two minutes before Saskia’s arrival Pru began to straighten the stacks of paper on her desk. Her garden email account open on the computer screen, she saw a new message pop in. She peered at the subject line: “Don’t even try.” She swallowed hard and clicked it open. The single line read: “I’ve done it before, I can do it again.”
Pru whipped her hands away from the keys, which seemed to sear her fingertips. This time, she recognized the sender: bowwowbabe. She stared at the screen. Can’t those people keep their sexual peccadilloes to themselves? she thought, cajoling herself with false bravado. “Ha,” she said aloud, “I don’t want to hear about what you can do, and you’re losing your touch if you keep sending comments about your escapades to the wrong address.”
A movement at the door made her look up. Saskia stood still, her eyes darting around the room. “Pru?”
She had meant to close the message, but the mouse hovered over delete, and when she clicked, the email disappeared. Good riddance. She emptied the trash without another thought. If she wanted to exchange innuendoes with someone, she would do so with Christopher.
Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) Page 18