The Bluebonnet Betrayal

by Marty Wingate

  A short, emotion-charged scene assembled itself in Pru’s head—tears, shouting, a toddler crying. What a mess. What had they all said?

  “Twyla moved out practically on the spot,” he continued. “ ‘I won’t stand in the way of your family,’ she told me. She never asked me what I wanted. Next thing I know, I hear she’s with bloody MacWeeks.”

  Chiv made it sound as if Twyla had got up out of his bed and fallen into Roddy’s.

  “It must’ve been a difficult time for all of you,” Pru said, blushing at the inane words. Why do emotionally charged events spark such lame comments?

  “Iris didn’t like her, of course. ‘Home-wrecker,’ she said. I pointed out that it was Iris herself who had wrecked our home.” Chiv shook his head. “Iris—she gets these ideas.”

  “So Iris knew Twyla,” Pru said as confirmation. Chiv drank the rest of his coffee. “How did Twyla meet Roddy?”

  “He came to the nursery for some outdoor art installation he was creating. Said he needed fifty birches, three-inch caliper, straight trunks. He wanted to plant them out in a meadow and lop off their canopies as a symbol of hope lost or some such nonsense. Berk.”

  Pru drew a timeline of Twyla’s life in England from Chiv to Roddy. But Twyla hadn’t stayed with Roddy. “And then she met Damien?”

  “I didn’t see her after she left—after Iris came back. I heard that she and MacWeeks had split and she’d met some businessman, got married, and moved back to Texas. There was just her sister and father left there. He was sick, and the sister needed help. I suppose she took Woodford back as her little bit of England to keep with her always. Or six years—that’s all it lasted.”

  Chiv’s phone rang and he stepped away to talk, leaving Pru to her thoughts. Twyla had had a short but eventful life in England. And when she planned her return to the place she loved so dearly, she had deliberately assembled a cast of characters that represented her past and present: two ex-lovers, one ex-husband, and a contingent of Texans. Had her death been a crime of passion? Jealousy? Revenge?

  “Iris,” Chiv told Pru as he sat and put his phone on the table. “I’d better be on my way.”

  “Wouldn’t you like another coffee?” Pru asked. She felt reluctant to let go so soon. “I’d love to hear more about what she was like—Twyla. I knew her for such a short time.” A friendship measured in minutes, not even weeks or months.

  He stared off across the road, chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, and then said, “Yeah, all right. I’ll get these.”

  When they’d settled again with another round of cappuccinos, Chiv started up without prompting.

  “She was…” That grin reappeared on his face. “She could do anything she set her mind to—and convince everyone it was the best idea. And she gave to people, making everyone around her happy. She—” He stumbled on the next word and coughed.

  Pru’s eyes filled with tears. “I could tell she loved being back here—I felt like it was something we had in common. What happened with her marriage to Damien?”

  Chiv cursed under his breath. “Upper-class twit. Came running back to his father’s money in short order.”

  “And yet his company is sponsoring the ARGS Chelsea garden,” Pru said.

  “He’s on the board,” Chiv said, nodding a concession. “I’d say he’s put up most of the money himself. She had that power to bring us all together.” He heaved a big sigh.

  “How did you plan all of this if you hadn’t seen her since you two split?”

  Chiv shrugged. “Email, mostly. We were on the phone. Once or twice.” He stared across the road, perhaps reliving the last words they exchanged, the sound of her voice, the hope for another meeting. For Chiv, this entire endeavor could have been much more than a garden for the Chelsea Flower Show. And for Twyla?

  —

  They parted and Pru walked to the Lamont Road house, wondering if she’d ever get that many words out of Chiv again. She half-expected to hear Twyla along the way, but there was silence from that quarter. Not stillness, not peace, just silence. Pru came within a hairsbreadth of asking the dead woman a question—but caught herself.

  Rosette answered the door, opening it wide enough to show her face, but not so wide as to look welcoming.

  “They’ve gone out,” she reported.

  “Where?”

  “Damien left a pile of tickets for things—that big Ferris wheel, Tower of London—I think they’ve taken one of those bus tours where you can get on and off.”

  The door hadn’t budged an inch, but Pru hadn’t budged, either. “Are you busy?” she asked. “Do you have a few minutes to talk? Would you like to go out for a coffee?” Pru wasn’t sure how much more coffee she could take before lunch, but if it gave her entry into what Rosette knew of Twyla, then the extreme caffeine intake would be worth it.

  Rosette shrugged and opened the door just wide enough for Pru to slip in. She followed Rosette through the sitting room, relieved that she didn’t see any luggage downstairs. Perhaps the decision had been to stay.

  On the table in the kitchen sat a teapot with the sugar bowl and milk pitcher on either side. “It’s fresh,” Rosette said. “Do you want a cup?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Rosette set out cups, saucers, and spoons, then poured the tea.

  Pru stirred milk into hers and set the spoon on her saucer. Rosette looked at Pru’s spoon long enough to cause Pru to look down too, sure she’d dribbled the tea or sloshed the milk. At last, Rosette reached out and shifted Pru’s spoon until it lay parallel to the handle of the cup.

  “How’s the house? Comfortable?”

  Rosette sighed. “It took us half the first night to figure out the shower. And no one had seen a bidet before.”

  “So, what have the police told you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Chiv hasn’t heard when we can get back to work. Will all of you be able to stay?”

  “And do it alone—without our leader? Isn’t that what you’re asking?”

  “No, that isn’t what I meant.”

  “She had this grand plan,” Rosette said, looking down into her tea. “We’d been listening to her go on about England for years, and then she latched onto this idea of a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show. She’d applied twice before they accepted this one.”

  “You all agreed it was a good idea,” Pru said. “The officers, the members?”

  “We’ve got five hundred members—two hundred at monthly meetings—a board, and an executive committee. We’ve got rules for everything, including election of officers. And yet Twyla’s been president for the past seven years. We just let her go on. She writes the newsletter, books the speakers. She does it all.” Rosette frowned. “Did.”

  Comments about “Frau Woodford” and the giggles that accompanied them echoed in Pru’s mind. “You’re saying that Twyla railroaded you into this?”

  Rosette waved that away. “Everybody loved her—they’d do anything she wanted.”

  When Chiv said those words, Twyla sounded charming and generous. Out of Rosette’s mouth, they sounded like a character flaw.

  Pru fidgeted in her seat, and wished Twyla would speak up for herself. “So the rest of the society thought this was a great idea, but to you, she was a tyrant? A dictator you were unable to get out of office? If you didn’t like the way she ran the organization, and you didn’t think a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show was a good idea—why are you even here, Rosette?”

  She looked up, her eyes sharp and clear. “Because somebody had to watch out for her. She’s too trusting, always thinking the best of people. Her whole life she’s been such a Pollyanna.”

  Those words stung. Pru had been accused of being a Pollyanna most of her life, too—as if that were a bad thing. But the words did something else—they tightened the bond she had with Twyla. Too tight—Pru was finding it difficult to take a deep breath.

  “Twyla mentioned a problem,” she said. “Do you know what it is?”

 
; Rosette seemed to fold up on herself, taking any insight into Twyla’s mind with her. “How would I know? Twyla always took care of things.”

  “Your Executive Board is listening! Bring all your questions and concerns to next month’s Open Forum meeting and all will be revealed. Be sure to sign up on the schedule as soon as you arrive and remember that each member is allowed one question and a two-minute slot—otherwise we’d be there until Christmas.”

  The President Speaks, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 14

  The thing that bothered Twyla and the thing that got her killed—these things had to be one and the same, Pru decided as she marched from the Lamont Road house to the Chelsea police station. She would put this to French when she told him about seeing that flash of blue. She would watch his face carefully—a tic or a blink might tell her if he knew this already. Were the police close to an arrest? Or were they totally in the dark? It was the not knowing that frustrated Pru—perhaps it was the not knowing that kept Twyla in her head.

  By the time her hand touched the door of the station, Pru had convinced herself it was perfectly reasonable to ask French for an update on Twyla’s case and that he would see the logic in her request.

  Once inside, she momentarily lost the point of her visit as memories overtook her. She had been to the station a few times when Christopher worked there as DCI—the most memorable one being early on. They’d been on the brink of their relationship and she had come to tell him she was moving back to Texas. She hadn’t, of course. A lovely warm feeling came over her as she remembered the scene, and she stood in the middle of the lobby, smiling.

  “May I help you?” the desk sergeant asked.

  “Yes—DCI French. Is he in? I’m Pru Parke.”

  Pru didn’t know this sergeant and he, apparently, didn’t recognize her, for he made no comment other than “Let me just check” before picking up the phone. Two minutes later DS Chalk appeared.

  “Ms. Parke, what can we do for you?” He stood a head shorter than her, his legs apart and his hands folded in front of him. Rugby, she thought.

  “I’ve remembered something about the evening I saw Twyla, and I’ve stopped to tell you.” She paused to let Chalk speak, but he didn’t. “And DCI French.” Still nothing. Damn policemen. “Is he here?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied. “Come with me.” He led her to interview room number two, as labeled outside the door. “Would you like tea?” he asked.

  “No, thank you,” Pru said. She’d tasted police station tea before and had no need to revisit it.

  He left her.

  French came in alone, closed the door, and sat across from her, his hands on the table. “Ms. Parke, how can I help you?”

  “I might’ve seen someone after I left Twyla.”

  The inspector shifted from blandly polite to poised to spring without moving an inch. It was something about his eyes and the way they focused. “Where?”

  “There are green parakeets on the hospital grounds, did you know that?”

  “You mean budgies in cages?”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Captive parakeets escaped years ago and have naturalized in parts of London. They roost in the plane trees on the hospital grounds. When I left Twyla at the garden site, I walked up Eastern Avenue—it runs parallel to Main Avenue, just on the other side of the row of buildings where you took us.”

  “Yes.”

  “At the top of that avenue, a path goes off to the right and down to Ranelagh Gardens, a meadow surrounded by trees. I thought I saw a flash of blue on the path.” She frowned, concentrating on that split-second sighting. “At least, I thought it was blue—one of our ARGS sweatshirts. I turned down the path and walked a ways, and one of the parakeets flew in front of me. And then I heard them overhead—they can be quite noisy. I realized—well, I thought at the time—that perhaps I’d made a mistake and what I’d seen was a bird.”

  “Are you color blind, Ms. Parke?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’ll go with blue.” He took a notebook out of his breast pocket. “We’ll need to take a second look at all the statements. Do you recall anything else? The size of the person—tall or short? Thin or fat? The way the figure moved—in a hurry or slowly?”

  She shrugged. “Only a glimpse of color. Sorry.” French stared at the window—frosted glass that revealed nothing. “What time did she die?” Pru asked. French’s eyes cut back to her. “Had she been there all night? Is there no CCTV that shows someone coming or going? What about that lorry entrance along Chelsea Bridge Road?”

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. Parke.”

  “What have you learned? Was someone angry with her? Do you suspect a member of the garden crew?”

  “I am not at liberty to go further.”

  “You can ask for help on the investigation, you know.” She regretted the suggestion the moment it was out of her mouth.

  French flew out of his chair, which threatened to tip over backward. “I will do this.” His eyes glinted as he placed the tips of his fingers on the table and stretched his neck to one side as if his collar was too tight. “I mean to say, the Metropolitan Police are perfectly capable of handling this investigation. We will find the person or persons responsible for Ms. Woodford’s death. Now, Ms. Parke, if you have nothing else to offer…” He gestured toward the door.

  Pru held her head high as she walked out, hoping to escape before the angry tears that filled her eyes could fall. “Keep your dirty gardener’s fingers out of my case”—that was what he was telling her. She heard French call “Chalk” before striding away down the corridor. The DS appeared and nodded to Pru as he passed her.

  Out on the pavement, Pru fumed as she realized she had left with nothing more than when she arrived. Less, really. What did she have to tell Twyla?

  Her face flushed at the thought. She must get that out of her head—she had nothing to tell Twyla, because Twyla was dead. No conversations could take place with her. None. Pru had done what she could and it would have to suffice. If the police would tell her nothing, what else could she do?

  It was not enough, she felt sure. Pru walked to the café at the Marks & Spencer on Kensington High Street, bought a ham sandwich and sat at a table in the corner listening to shoppers all round her chatting about their days. She waited with a dread that crawled over her, knowing at any moment a voice would call her name. The fact that it didn’t was no relief.

  She got on the District Line at the High Ken station, her hands restless in her lap. She sat on them to keep them still, after which both legs bounced up and down in time to a jitterbug tune only they could hear. Pru stood and grabbed hold of a pole for the last two stops, gripping it so hard her fingers turned white.

  Out at Turnham Green, a text arrived from Christopher. How was her day and did she want to meet him later at the Lord John Russell in Bloomsbury? Was it too far for her to go? Of course she would, and no, it wasn’t too far—it meant less time alone in the flat. For a moment, she considered turning on the spot and heading for the pub—only four hours ahead of schedule. But instead, she took a deep breath and walked, making a beeline for the flat and not stopping until she was through the door and into the bedroom where she dropped her bag.

  A cup of tea, she thought. With Mrs. Miller—yes, that would be nice. But Mrs. Miller and Boris were out, and so Pru forced herself to sit at her own kitchen table with a cup of tea and a slice of Evelyn’s ginger cake. Ginger had some medicinal qualities, didn’t it? She felt better afterward, smoothed out, calmer. She was fine, really. Still far too early to leave, though, and so after her tea, she stretched out on the sofa for a short nap. She covered herself with a light throw and laid her head down on the pillow. Sleep came upon her almost instantly.

  “No entity or person shall stand in the way of the Society’s mission to promote the native hill country landscape or in any way compromise the benefits of said plantings, and any hindr
ance thereof shall be pursued by the President or Executive Committee regardless of the consequences.”

  Article 2, Section 3.4, bylaws of the Austin Rock Garden Society

  Chapter 15

  Not a pleasant sleep, not a restful sleep, but a deep one from which Pru struggled to awaken. Dreams dragged her down—people with no faces clawing at her clothes, pulling her this way and that as they moaned and complained. A steamy atmosphere swirled round her and the hot air caught in her throat. She felt for her hair clip. Her hand came away holding an elastic band instead, her hair falling round her, smooth and blond, fading to gray.

  “It’s got to come out,” Twyla said.

  Pru strained to form the words “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “I feel like I belong here—I knew you’d understand.”

  “But I don’t understand—what is it? Who did this?”

  “We can’t let it happen. I can count on you.”

  “Please, you can’t!” Pru cried.

  “Pru?”

  “Leave me alone!” she shouted, flailing as Twyla took hold of her.

  “Pru!”

  Christopher’s face appeared in front of her. He held her arms and shook her. “Pru, look at me—you’re all right, you’re here.”

  She gasped for air and couldn’t get her bearings—where were the clawing hands, the moans, the stifling air? She found herself crouched in a corner of the flat, the light throw dragged halfway off the sofa.

  “A bad dream,” she mumbled, and thought to stand, but couldn’t quite sort out how to coordinate her limbs. She began to tremble, and Christopher put his arms round her and helped her back to the sofa. He kissed her damp forehead.

  “More than a bad dream.” He switched on the nearest lamp, casting light on the deep lines of worry on his face. “This business is too much for you—please, let’s go back to Hampshire.”