Chapter 31
After Tamsin left, Pru finished her sandwich and made another cup of tea. She pushed the wedding-dress problem to a back corner of her mind, stacking it up with the rest of the plans, duties, and arrangements, and put off worrying about Saskia and her mum. Instead, she logged on to her email.
Bowwowbabe refused to give up. This subject line read: “I’m on my way.” Pru laughed to herself. On your way where? she thought. And wouldn’t that be a surprise to someone. She opened the message. “We’ll have this out face-to-face, Pru Parke.”
The radiator creaked, and Pru jumped. It all became clear. Not wrongly addressed emails, but threatening messages making not-so-veiled references to what the sender had done. Pru’s mind hopped, skipped, and jumped to the realization that the emails came from the person who had killed Iain, and who was now on his way to her. She had no time to think it through. She was a target—a sitting duck. She grabbed her phone and hit speed dial.
“Pearse, leave a message.”
Crap. “Christopher, hi, look, I know this is something I should’ve mentioned before, but I didn’t think it was important and it probably isn’t, it’s just that I’ve gotten three emails from someone I don’t know and I thought it was a mistake, of course, although the first two did seem a little creepy now that I think about it”—her voice shook; she took a quick breath and glanced out the window behind her desk, as if she might recognize the killer striding up the walk—“but this latest one…I just wanted to tell you about them so that you could tell me not to worry, and also, just in case, you know, that it’s really Iain’s killer who sent them, I’m going to ring the police this minute, it’s just that I thought I’d talk to you first…” She heard the door to the building open and footsteps approaching. Clack, clack, clack.
She hit “end” and stole behind the door, looking at her phone and judging its usefulness as a weapon. She reached over to pick up the electric kettle, heavier, although it might slosh and give her away. Through the frosted glass, she saw a figure in the doorway. A hand with cherry-red fingernails wrapped itself around the door and pushed it open.
“I told you I was coming. We need to get a few things straight.”
Chapter 32
Pru stared at the woman before her—a woman with an American accent. Check that—a deep Southern drawl. Highlighted with a few stands of gray, her blond hair framed her face and cascaded onto her shoulders in a mass of soft curls. She might’ve been a few years younger than Pru, but just. She wore a brown leather coat and tall, skin-tight leather boots with thin heels and carried an oversize matching leather handbag.
“Well—what do you have to say for yourself?” the woman asked, putting a hand on her hip.
Confused, Pru could only come up with her own questions. “About what? Who are you?”
“Who am I?” she asked. “I’m Krystal, Marcus’s girlfriend.”
Pru frowned and cocked her head. After a moment, she began to laugh. She leaned forward on the tea table and clapped a hand over her mouth, as Krystal took a tiny step back. “I’m sorry,” Pru said, holding one hand up with a gasp. “But—did you send me those emails?”
“Of course I did. Who did you think it was?”
That seemed beside the point now. “But why? We don’t even know each other.”
Krystal remained in the doorway. She frowned and bit her bottom lip. “Because of Marcus,” she said, looking down into her brown leather gloves. “He won’t stop talking about you.”
Marcus, it’s true—you are a jackass. “Oh, Krystal, you’ve got the wrong idea. Marcus and I are old friends—if he talks about me, it’s because I remind him of Dallas, the arboretum.” Krystal crossed her arms and held firm her doorway position. “Come in and sit down, please,” Pru said, remembering her manners once the threat of danger was over. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
Krystal dropped her arms and softened. “Well, now that you ask—I’d love a cup of tea. It sounds so…British. You put milk in it, right?” She walked in the rest of the way, set her handbag by the wall, and sat on the edge of the chair, her back ramrod straight.
Pru nodded as she switched on the kettle. “You don’t sound like you’re from Dallas,” she said, as they moved onto a friendlier playing field.
Krystal shook her head, and her blond curls bounced around. “Born and reared in Atlanta—I’m a Georgia peach,” she said with a wide, winning smile, and a tilt of her chin. “But you’re not wiggling out of this,” she said, shaking a finger at Pru.
“I don’t know how you got the idea that I was…after Marcus. He misses you.” Pru didn’t know that for a fact, but it seemed a good assumption.
Krystal gave a shrug of one shoulder. “I miss him, too. And he did say you’re getting married.” Christopher, Pru thought, and reached for her mobile to leave him an all-clear message, but Krystal’s fading smile caught her. “It’s just that”—she glanced at Pru and then away—“we know that Marcus has been known to…shift the focus of his affections, and I just thought…”
Pru could see Krystal struggling to put into nonjudgmental words what she had done to Celia, and what Celia had done to Pru. “All that was a long time ago,” Pru said, handing Krystal a mug. “Marcus and I are just old friends. I’ll bet he’s thrilled that you’re here. When did you arrive?”
Krystal’s eyes shifted to the door. “I came straight from the airport, but I didn’t tell him. It’s a surprise.”
Pru brightened. “I love surprises. Let’s ring him, shall we? And I’ll just say he needs to stop by my office,” she said. “What fun!” But her finger stopped before hitting Marcus’s extension. “How did you know where to find me?”
“The taxi dropped me off at the gate, and I walked in and asked the first person I saw—some guy with a green knit hat—he was cleaning the tables in front of the coffee stand. He knew exactly where you were.”
Pru peered out the window to see if Murdo peered back as she rang Marcus and asked him to come round. He didn’t ask why.
Krystal wrapped her hands around the mug of tea. “I should get used to drinking this,” she said. “I’ll probably be over here a lot on business.”
“What business are you in?” Pru asked.
Krystal’s face fell. “He didn’t even tell you that?”
“We never see each other,” Pru said. “We work in completely different areas.”
Krystal picked up her bag, reached in, and pulled out a pair of spike heels in a neutral shade. She caught Pru’s raised eyebrows and said, “I always carry a spare pair—you never know when you’ll need them.”
“Yes, of course,” Pru said, although she thought even one pair too many.
Krystal handed Pru a crisp sales brochure from her bag. “I’m BowWow!Babe—I’ve designed a line of high-end doggie chew toys made from organic rubber. We’re in all the best pet-friendly boutique hotels, an original BowWow! waiting on the pillow for each guest’s little precious. These are keepsakes—a distinctive memento of the dog’s visit to that city.” She opened the brochure and pointed to a chew toy in the shape of the Empire State Building. “This is our Big Apple BowWow! and here”—she tapped on a Golden Gate Bridge—“is our Frisco BowWow! I’m going international—soon we’ll have a Big Ben BowWow! and I want something for Scotland, too, but I haven’t decided on the design. Maybe a kilt—or, what’s that hairy thing those kilt guys wear between their legs?”
Pru choked on her tea and coughed out, “Sporran,” just as her mobile rang.
“Is everything all right?” Christopher asked.
In the background, Krystal hooted with laughter at her own joke, as Pru said, “Oh, hi, I’m so sorry I didn’t ring back right away. It’s great. Marcus’s girlfriend is visiting from Dallas.”
“But the emails?” Christopher asked.
“Oh, that was Krystal, just a misunderstanding, but everything is fine. We’re having a cup of tea.”
“You sounded upset on the message,” Christopher said
, pursuing his point.
Pru had forgotten the panic she’d felt when the final email had arrived. “Yes, that was silly, wasn’t it? I’m sorry to worry you.” He didn’t reply. “Christopher?” She looked at her phone’s display and frowned. “Dead battery.” She reached in her bag for the charger, but heard Marcus’s boot steps in the hall. Her eyes met Krystal’s.
He pushed open the door, and said, “Hey,” before noticing the new arrival. His eyes cut back and forth between the two women, ending on Krystal. He said, “What…”
Don’t do it, Marcus, Pru thought. Don’t say “What are you doing here?”
“What…what a surprise,” Marcus said. He looked surprised all right.
Krystal, who had been hovering an inch above her chair, threw herself into his arms. “Oh, baby. I was so lonesome at home—I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I wanted to meet Pru, of course.” They both looked over at Pru, who sat at her desk and smiled. “So I set up meetings here and in London—might as well mix business with pleasure.” She twirled a curl of his black hair around a finger. “Are you happy to see me?”
“Of course I am,” Marcus said and kissed her lightly, a kiss that Krystal returned a hundred and fifty percent. Pru leaned back in her chair and observed the show with a mixture of relief and a memory of what it felt like to be in those arms.
Marcus pulled away slightly from Krystal and looked over at Pru, who wiggled her eyebrows at him. He blushed. “Look, K, I’ve got a meeting in five minutes—would you wait for me? Maybe…”
“I’ll take Krystal to the Pickled Egg for a drink, and you can collect her from there,” Pru said. “We have loads to talk about.”
“Yes,” Krystal said, pumping a fist in the air, “I am ready for warm beer. You won’t be too long, will you, baby?” She ran her finger down his jawline.
“Are you sure?” Marcus asked Pru. He didn’t appear entirely happy with the idea.
Pru nodded and waved him out of her office. “We’ll see you later.”
Chapter 33
Pru lay on her sofa, her feet—in their spike heels—propped up on the arms. Krystal was lovely, really, once she had been convinced that Pru was not a threat to her relationship with Marcus. But by the time he had come round to the pub to collect her, Pru had had more than her fill of sustainable and organic methods at rubber plantations, South American farmer-owned co-operatives, and squeaky versus nonsqueaky chew toys. She spent the rest of the evening watching back-to-back Dr. Who reruns, and had just turned off the television.
The rap on the door sounded like a bullet. Rap. Rap-rap-rap. She sat up and froze, her skin cold and sweaty. It was late. No one ever came to visit her. Marcus and Krystal—well, she was quite sure they were otherwise occupied. Who could it be? A small part of her mind tried reason—if someone meant you harm, would he knock first?—but a second rap-rap-rap shouted reason down. She got up and silently made her way into the front hall, straining her ears for another sound.
All quiet. She crept toward the door, staying on tiptoe so that her heels wouldn’t clatter on the stone floor, and bent down. If she caught a whiff of Fairy liquid, she would ring 999 straightaway and let someone else deal with Murdo. Her nose was six inches away when the letter flap opened and she cried out, falling back into the wall and grabbing hold of a coat hook that kept her from landing on her bottom.
“Pru?” the voice through the slot called.
“Christopher!”
Her heart pounding and her hands shaking, she had trouble turning the lock and opening the door. He stepped in, dropped his bag, and she flew into his arms, pulling him close to let her heart thump-thump-thump against his chest. “I thought you were…I didn’t know…this is wonderful. I’m so glad it’s you.” She looked up—almost eye level with him in her heels. He cupped her face in his hands and gave her a long kiss, but she hadn’t caught her breath and had to come up for air.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright. I wanted to surprise you.”
She wheezed a laugh. “Mission accomplished.” She laid her head on his chest and panted as her heart rate slowed.
After a moment, he held her out at arm’s length and gave her an appraising look. His eyes traveled slowly down her body, past her trousers—rolled up to midcalf—and to her feet. She wiggled her toes, and his eyes moved slowly back up again.
“Jo sent them,” she said, turning pink. “I’m to practice.” She saw that ghost of a smile, and it made her giggle. “Walking. I’m to practice walking around in them. Would you like a brandy?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I’ll just get the glasses.”
“I’ll just watch you get the glasses,” he said.
She prayed she wouldn’t topple over from the attention. She threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin, turned, and walked down the hall. When she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder, fluttered her eyelashes, kicked one heel back—and turned the other ankle.
“Ow.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine—stay there,” she said from around the corner rubbing her foot. “I shouldn’t have pushed my luck.”
She returned with bottle and glasses in hand. Ignoring the slight twinge in the turned ankle, she walked straight up to him, put her arms around his neck, and said, “There. Not bad.”
“Not bad at all, I’d say.”
She led him into the front room, delighted with the way her day had ended. “Is this why you were working on case notes all night—so you could get away?”
He answered with a smile. “I decided to ring you when we landed, but your mobile was off.”
Pru pointed at her phone. “The battery died while we were talking earlier, but I plugged it in when I got home. Oh,” she said and slapped at the switch that turned on the outlet. “I forgot that.” The screen on her phone lit up immediately.
They sat on the sofa, and she poured them each a measure of brandy.
“Do they hurt?” he asked, eyeing her heels.
“A bit—I’ve had them on all evening.”
“Give them here.” He nodded his head toward her feet.
She scooted sideways, put her feet in his lap, and leaned back. He slipped the heels off, set them on the coffee table, and began rubbing at the red marks the straps left, as if to erase them. He pressed his thumbs into the balls of her feet; she moaned slightly and closed her eyes.
“Did you wear them today for your dress fitting?”
Her eyes flew open. “Um, no. I didn’t get quite as far as shoes.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You did have your fitting today?”
She looked at him without speaking for a moment, weighing her options, and then sighed and sat up. “All right, pour me another brandy, please, and I will tell you the tale of my dress fittings.” She edged the box of tissues closer, preparing for the worst.
She started with Little Bo Peep and left nothing out. She held out her hand to show how puffy the sleeves were and heard a snort from Christopher. She stopped and eyed him narrowly—could he not tell the difference between comedy and tragedy? His face could’ve been made of stone, except she saw the corner of his mouth twitch. She continued with the bouffant skirt, and when she indicated the size and placement of the blue satin bow, his face reddened until he gasped for breath.
She stopped and pressed her lips together, but it was too late—a giggle escaped. She started in on the torch-singer outfit—the glittery, form-fitting, midnight-blue material, the flounce, the problem with keeping the dress up. At the end of it all, neither of them could speak for laughing.
“The thing is,” she said, wiping away a tear and taking a sip of brandy, “I had a dress just like it for my Barbie doll. But at least Barbie’s boobs stayed put.”
“Ah, if I had been a fly on the wall for that,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Nonsense,” she said, “you can see them
anytime. I just don’t want everyone else seeing them.”
“And so,” he said, as he put his arm around her and they settled back on the sofa, “it’s back to the drawing board with Madame Fiona?”
She shook her head and sighed. “I can’t go through that again. I like Madame Fiona, but I need a dress, not an ongoing production. Jo will find a dress for me. I told her to have it waiting the day of the wedding—I don’t even want to think about it until I’m ready to walk down the aisle.” She raised up to see him better. “Some aisle. Someplace.”
Without looking up, he said, “I spoke with Alan yesterday.”
An alarm bell began clanging in her head. She felt as if they still walked a fine line with Alan. “Did you? Is everything all right?”
“Yes.” She saw that ghost of a smile. “It was just a chat. But we could ask him about a place for the wedding—or perhaps we should resume our tour of Edinburgh’s kirks on Saturday.”
She nodded. “There must be something out there.” She watched as he traced a pattern on the back of her hand with his fingertip. “Any word on my Laird?” she asked.
Christopher’s keen brown gaze penetrated her thoughts, taking stock. “Why don’t we talk about that in the morning? It’s late.”
She translated that to mean, yes, there is news, and you aren’t going to like it. “Now,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to wait until morning—I wouldn’t be able to sleep.” She straightened herself up. “I can take it—go ahead.”
He sat up, too, taking her glass and setting it on the table. He took her hands in his.
“M-O-R-A-Y,” he said. “It’s pronounced ‘murry,’ and it’s a county north of here, near Aberdeenshire. Laird—that isn’t actually a Scottish title, but a description of a landowner.”
Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) Page 21