The kettle boiled and switched itself off, but Rosette didn’t move and so Pru poured up the tea and put the pot on the table along with mugs and milk. She expected Rosette to rearrange the items to suit her, but Rosette, it seemed, was lost in thought, traveling back into her past.
“Did you ever see your dad again?” Pru asked gently.
“Oh yes. I took classes from him at UT—hard to avoid it as he was head of the botany department. My mother died before I finished my master’s degree and he offered to help me clear out the house, but what did I need of his help then? I was teaching at the junior college by the time Twyla was in college. We would run into each other every once in a while after her mother died, and she would always say those things you expect someone to say—she wanted to get together, let’s talk, we’re family. But we weren’t—my father had chosen his family and it didn’t include me. Until there was no one else left, of course.”
Pru poured the tea, put milk in the mugs, and pushed one toward Rosette, who wrapped her hands round it as if drawing up its warmth.
“Twyla started teaching high school, but after about ten years said she needed a break. She wanted to travel the world, but she came to England first, and once she got here, she never wanted to leave, said she planned on staying. After a couple of years, our father became very ill and he could no longer live alone. All he had was me, so I moved him into my house and took care of him.” Rosette swallowed. “It wasn’t the ideal match. He was so messy—he’d set glasses of water down everywhere, leave doors ajar, and drop tissues on the floor—he couldn’t even be bothered to throw them in the wastebasket. I couldn’t keep up. I couldn’t…” She shuddered. “Twyla and Damien had to come back. To help. Our father died about six months later.
“It was a while before I could go back to work. It was a while before I understood that it wasn’t my fault my father had left my mother and me. And it wasn’t Twyla’s fault, either. Since then, we’ve been close. You know, more like sisters.” Rosette gulped down half her tea and set the mug on the table. “And there you have it—portrait of a perfect family.”
“No family is perfect. Someday I’ll tell you about mine.”
“Do you think I killed her? Is that why you won’t leave me alone? Am I a suspect?”
“Everyone’s a suspect,” Pru said, not happy about it. “That’s what the police think. I never thought you did it, it’s just that I couldn’t figure out why you could be so protective of Twyla and annoyed with her at the same time. And then the other night I rang my brother and as usual we disagreed and made up and disagreed again—and that’s when it dawned on me.”
“If I didn’t do it, then who?”
Pru shrugged. They sat in silence as Pru’s eyes wandered over the kitchen with its modern fittings and out into the sitting room filled with comfy chairs and with lovely art prints on the wall.
“It was good of Damien to do this for you,” she said, almost to herself. “The house for the month, paying for the garden. All for Twyla—and you, too.” She recalled the brief conversation she’d had with Damien that afternoon. “He doesn’t sound sold on Forde, though.”
“I’m not sold on Forde, I can tell you. All this talk of his proprietary process and how much money he’s going to make.” The bitter Rosette, who had disappeared by the end of the story of her family history, returned. “The Texas DOT buys thirty thousand pounds of wildflower seed a year—and the society helps sow them. When I mentioned that to Forde, all he said was, ‘Well, wouldn’t that add a copper or two to the coffers.’ ” She wrinkled her nose. “He was talking about money, wasn’t he?”
Pru nodded. “A copper is an old name for a two-pence—tuppence—but can mean money in general.”
“Made it sound as if he wanted to corner the market,” Rosette complained.
“I know how annoying it is when you can’t get someone to see the value in what you love—and what’s important. Twyla did this garden for you, didn’t she?”
Rosette blinked, but not fast enough to keep back a tear that ran down her cheek. She drew a folded hanky out of her pocket, dabbed at her face, shook out the handkerchief, and refolded it.
“I won’t let that designer screw this up,” Rosette said. “It’s Twyla’s legacy now.”
Although Pru could not see Rosette strangling her own sister, she could quite envision her throttling Roddy. Had Rosette enough time to hurry back to the grounds and attack Roddy before Pru arrived? That is, if he had been attacked.
“I wonder what was bothering her,” Pru said to herself.
Rosette shook her head. “Before we left Austin, I knew something was wrong. ‘I’ll tell you about it when I see you,’ she said. ‘I’ll show you—I’ll bring proof.’ ”
“Proof?” Pru echoed.
“I looked for it in her suitcase,” Rosette said, nodding to the ceiling. “I thought she might have papers or her computer or a flash drive. Nothing.”
Pru recalled seeing the police carry out the suitcase. It had been the only indication that Twyla had been to the house. “You looked through her suitcase before the police took it away with them? How did you manage that?”
“They brought us back here that day to get our passports, and when we went upstairs they stayed down here. I didn’t think they’d found a suitcase at the garden, but she had to have left it somewhere. If the person who murdered her took it, the police would need to know.” Rosette shrugged. “I peeked in the little room that was supposed to be hers, and there it was. I didn’t even think, I just started going through it—I hoped maybe there would be something that would jump out at me. ‘Here!’ I could say. ‘This is why she was killed.’ But there wasn’t anything. So I put everything back the way it was.” Rosette smiled, her eyes shining. “No, better. I straightened it up—she never folded her clothes properly. And then I told the police it was there.”
“Well done,” Pru said, marveling at Rosette’s sneaky ways. “But if the proof wasn’t there, where is it? And what is it?”
“I’m—”
Their conversation broke off when they heard the front door close. Ivory called out, and Rosette said, “In the kitchen.”
Ivory entered, panting slightly and her hands full of shopping bags, which she deposited in a chair. “I have found the most beautiful and expensive scarves in the world.” She held up a bag emblazoned with LIBERTY LONDON. “My husband will be thrilled, I’m sure. But I also found this place called Lillywhites and got all the men their soccer jerseys—or, excuse me, ‘football.’ ” She wiggled her fingers in air quotes. Ivory took in the kitchen scene and asked, “So, how are you two doing?”
“We’re good,” Pru replied, smiling. “Where are the girls?”
“They’ve latched on to one of the old guys working on Prince Harry’s garden, and they’ve taken him out for a drink.” Ivory frowned. “It was all right, wasn’t it, that we left? Chiv said to go on, that he and Iris were leaving soon.”
Had Chiv sent everyone away so that he could attack Roddy? Pru could quite see that happening, too. “Sure, nothing going on back there now.”
“Pru, why don’t you stay to dinner?” Ivory asked. “Damien’s coming over—has your husband made it up here yet? We sure would love to meet him.”
Pru looked away from Ivory’s big, deep brown eyes as she felt her face go hot. “Oh, he’s started working on a special case”—true, this one, with me—“it’s fraud”—yeah, I’m being a fraud right now—“but I’m keeping him up on everything that’s happening here”—true, except for today’s information, which I’ve yet to off-load. Pru’s head began to spin. How could she track what she’d said to Ivory, and what she’d kept quiet? “Thanks, but I think I’ll be on my way. I’ve been helping out a neighbor, walking her dog.” True—whew.
Ivory accompanied her to the door.
“Did Sweetie clear all that other business up with the police?”
“They didn’t even ask her about that other business,” Pru said. “Twyl
a didn’t press charges, maybe it didn’t stay on the books.”
“So she told you about it?”
Pru nodded. “They just wanted to go over her statement again, where she was and when. That she was with Skippy all night—of course, you knew she hadn’t gone to the theater.”
It was the way Ivory didn’t move and didn’t look at Pru, only shifted her gaze slightly and said, “Yeah,” that put Pru on high alert.
“Right? You knew she wasn’t there because all the rest of you were.”
“I guess.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Ivory pulled the door to behind her before she answered. “Our seats weren’t together, so we all got there at the same time, but we didn’t really see each other the rest of the night.”
“What?”
“It’s a really popular play, even though it’s been running forever. Damien said he could only get single seats, so we were scattered around—there are two balconies and then the ground floor. We decided we’d meet back at the Tube station afterward, but the girls said they might stop at a pub, and I could see Sweetie wasn’t going to hang around—not the way she was dressed. Rosette and I decided that if we didn’t catch up—those stations are so crowded—we’d see each other back here. I just figured Sweetie came in later—I didn’t know she’d stayed the whole night with Skippy.”
“You didn’t tell the police this?” Pru saw the women scattering to the four winds that evening. Any one of them could’ve left early and the others wouldn’t have known. “Didn’t you talk about this among yourselves?”
“We didn’t need to.” Ivory folded her arms over her ample chest. “We didn’t think one of us was guilty. And so it didn’t seem important.”
“No—that isn’t true,” Pru said, wagging a finger at Ivory. “People only say that when they know very well it’s important but they believe there’s something to hide. If none of you told the police that you didn’t see each other until late that evening, it means that all of you think that any one of you is capable of…doing that. You’re covering for each other.”
“Are you saying you think one of us killed Twyla?” Ivory’s face flushed.
“No, I’m not saying that I think that. I am saying that you all think one of you is capable. Why else would you hide this?” Ivory didn’t speak, but she did shrug one shoulder. Pru hoped it meant she had made her point, but it couldn’t hurt to give another nudge. She put her hand on Ivory’s arm. “Come clean to the police.”
“The tea and cake committee would like to remind all members that donations of baked goods for meetings are always welcome, but please note that store-bought cookies will not be served.”
Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 32
Commuters were packed like proverbial sardines in a Tube can. Pru, wedged between two large men, held on to an overhead strap. One of the men, in a suit with a briefcase on the floor between his legs, had a phone in each hand and so held on to nothing, lurching into Pru every time the brakes were applied. Despite the close quarters, she felt chilled. When she got off at Turnham Green, she pulled on her ARGS sweatshirt. She hoped her chills were the result of fatigue and she wasn’t getting sick.
Where had the day gone? What had she eaten? Her feet took her automatically into Fritz & Floyd, the deli just a few steps from the station, and once inside the door, she inhaled the fragrance of olives and bread and cheese and roasted meats. Her mouth watered. Fritz raised his head in greeting.
“Lovely evening,” he said.
“It is that,” she agreed, at least in theory. She stepped up to the case and stood mesmerized by the offerings, too hungry to choose. While she dithered, Fritz waited on a woman who had come in behind her.
When it was her turn again, Pru said, “I’ll have a filled baguette with roasted chicken, brie, and red currant jelly. And one of those Portuguese custard tarts.”
“Is that to eat in or takeaway?”
“Takeaway, please.” They had only a tiny counter with three stools at the front window of the deli, and a minute table that accommodated two if you didn’t mind shoppers reaching across you for a wedge of Stilton. Great fun for morning coffee, but not for a meal. Also, she needed a shower before she ate. And a glass of wine. And a chat with Christopher. Two out of the three she could accomplish, leaving the most important one up in the air.
As Fritz went off to assemble her baguette, Floyd came in from the back. “Hiya,” he said, and looked down at her sweatshirt. “Oh, are you one of them, too?”
Pru followed his gaze to her bluebonnet attire—AUSTIN ROCKS! “You’ve seen this before?”
“Oh yeah, just a couple of minutes ago. Is that the name of your band—Austin Rocks?”
Slivers of ice ran through Pru’s veins. Christopher—who never wore the ARGS sweatshirt except on-site—wasn’t even in town. Which left everyone else. None of them lived nearby, but they all, she had only recently realized, could’ve known her Tube stop.
“Who was it?” she asked aloud, but directed to herself.
“Did you see that bloke, Fritz? Kitted out like this?” He nodded toward Pru as his partner brought out her sandwich and put it in a bag.
“The one standing in the window? Yeah, so I did. Wasn’t a bloke, though, was it? Too short.”
“Could’ve been a short one.”
Both Fritz and Floyd were the sort who could reach the top shelf of anything without a strain—anyone might seem short to them.
“You couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman?”
“Had the hood up, you see,” Fritz said. “Face was all in shadow.”
“Was he—she—wearing glasses?”
Floyd screwed up his mouth in concentration. “No specs.”
“Might’ve been wearing specs,” Fritz pointed out. “Couldn’t see inside the hood.”
“Hair—long, short? What color?”
Fritz and Floyd looked at each other and shrugged.
Not tall, not short, spectacles or no, man or woman. Is this what police had to contend with when it came to witnesses?
“He was out there not two ticks before you came in.”
There now—that was a lead. Pru whirled round as she pulled money out of her bag and tossed it on the counter. “Where did he go?”
“Crossed the road? Yeah, that’s right, he crossed the road. Are you late for a rehearsal? Maybe he was looking for you?”
Yeah, maybe he was. She grabbed her sack of food and ran.
“You’ve money coming back to you!” Fritz called.
Pru made it five steps and had to hold up at the zebra crossing. While she waited for traffic to stop, she scoured the scene for that blue—pavements filled with walkers, people spilling into the Common. When cars had stopped, she sprinted across and into the green, scanning the lawn and the surrounding roadways as she ran through, circling each island planting of shrubs before continuing on her way.
At one point, more to catch her breath than anything else, she stopped at a bench where an older woman sat sipping a coffee. “Sorry,” she panted. “Did you see someone come by who was wearing one of these?” She plucked at her sweatshirt.
“No, I didn’t,” the woman said pleasantly. “Lovely color, isn’t it? Reminds me of gentians.”
Pru smiled, nodded, and ran on, through the Common and round the other side, walking down the pavement on her return trip. She’d come up empty.
She should’ve been scared to know that someone was following her, but she wasn’t—she was angry and determined to find out who would skulk around her neighborhood. What did he—she—hope to accomplish? What sort of game did she—he—think this was? Was it, as she had first suspected, Iris? No more pussyfooting around. Now was the time for direct questions.
By the time Pru came out of the lift and walked to the front door of the flat, she’d regained some perspective and caution. As French pointed out—everyone came to her, she was a lightning rod
for this investigation. Whoever this was, tracking her down here in Chiswick, might have done so for innocent reasons, but had become too shy at the last minute.
Only when she had unlocked the door did it sink in that she’d be spending the night alone. But now, full of fury, annoyance, longing, and hunger, she would not let the prospect of hearing voices daunt her.
The door clicked closed behind her, and Pru stood in the entry, gauging the atmosphere before making an announcement. The place felt empty, but just in case—“Look,” she said, “I’m doing what I can, surely you can see that. You’ve got to leave me alone tonight. Please.”
She sensed no complaints and, with relief, headed for the shower.
—
Pru had pulled on her stretchy knit pajamas and sat at the kitchen table to eat. Her sandwich—possibly the most delicious baguette she’d ever eaten—had been quickly reduced to a pile of bread crumbs. She’d intended to call every person involved in the ARGS garden, but had had to leave off until after her meal because the red currant jelly gave her sticky fingers. But once washed, she poured herself more wine and, with pen and notepad at the ready, she rang each of them.
“I want to have a word with you tomorrow, in private. It’s just something I need to clear up. You won’t mind, will you? I’ll see you first thing.”
She grew weary of the words as she repeated them over and over, leaving messages for everyone, because no one picked up. So much for being a touchstone, Pru thought glumly. She personalized Forde’s message—“It’s about the bluebonnets. This is important”—knowing those words to be his trigger.
Pru eyed the Portuguese custard tart, occupying its own plate on the counter. Perhaps she’d make herself a cup of tea and take her afters into the sitting room and watch a bit of telly. When her phone rang, she pounced on it—which one of them had decided to ring her back?
The Bluebonnet Betrayal Page 20