“He called us this morning,” Sweetie continued, her eyes shining. “We had a talk and—we found some extra help to fix things up.”
That was when Pru noticed Skippy coming up behind Sweetie. And behind him—it looked like a parade, as a dozen or more of the Aussies marched down Main Avenue toward them.
“Idle hands,” Skippy said to Pru, “and so we thought we might pitch in.”
Pru, unable to speak, hugged the women again. She glanced over and saw Chiv look at Nottle, who shook his head and shrugged.
Christopher walked up and extended a hand to Skippy, who shook it and asked, “Owyargone?”
“I’m well, Sergeant, and you?” Christopher responded.
“You what?” Pru asked Skippy.
“Senior Sergeant Woolverton, New South Wales,” Christopher said. “So I learned this morning.”
“On holiday at the Chelsea Flower Show,” Skippy added.
—
The Aussies spilled onto the site just as two delivery lorries came backing down from the Chelsea Bridge gate. Here they were, the flowers. Pru frowned. The last and most important piece of the landscape. After the night before, after what had happened to her—and more so to Rosette and especially to Twyla—it didn’t seem fair that they would be showcasing Roddy’s precious Nigella damascena, love-in-a-mist—blue flowers but the wrong blue and the wrong flowers. Others caught sight of the lorries, and all nearby activity ceased. Chiv scanned the grounds until he saw Pru and jerked his head to call her closer. When Teddy and friend hopped out of the cabs, the crowd gathered round as if waiting for the lorries to disgorge a load of clowns.
Chiv went to the back gate of the closer lorry, unlatched it, and gave it a push. As it rolled up, everyone leaned forward and collectively, as if on cue, drew a sharp breath. The inside of the lorry was lined with shelves and filling all the shelves were flats and flats of plants. Green—they saw lots of green, but some of the plants had already started to bloom, and so along with the green, they saw blue—the blue of a lake, the blue of a sky. Bluebonnets.
For one moment, the world stood still. And then Pru heard the strains of a familiar tune. She looked round until she spotted Ivory, grinning widely as she started in on the old song “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” Soon the other Austin women joined her—Pru joined in, too—and when it came to the empty four-beat measure, they filled in—clap, clap, clap, clap. Their voices rose and spread on the spring air until the people stocking souvenirs, trowels, hats, and Wellies at the stalls all turned and smiled. And on the second go-round, when it came to the empty four-beat measure, the women reached up to the side of the truck and used it as their percussion, the sound echoing across the Chelsea Flower Show grounds. Boom, boom, boom, boom!
“Members please note: after the last meeting of the year, we will adjourn to the bar at the Driskill.”
Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 44
Pru, banned from physical work on the garden repair, applied herself to other tasks. She rang Roddy MacWeeks and told him what had happened. Roddy became quite emotional on the phone and talked about Twyla giving her life for her beloved Texas hill country. Pru took that opportunity to tell him about the bluebonnets and that she would be rewriting the leaflets. And oh, by the way, as his changes never made it to the official Chelsea program—according to Arthur Nottle—the ARGS garden remained “More Than Rock and Stone.” Pru ended the conversation as soon as possible.
She spent every available moment of the next three days on the grounds itching to lay a stone or spread a shovelful of mulch. She did sneak in at one point—really, there were so many people working no one would’ve noticed that she started in on the wall, but the stone, heavy and unwieldy, slipped out of her hand, narrowly missing her toes. Her wrist took up that throbbing pain again, and so she went back to watching from the sidelines and rewriting the leaflet. Typing one-handed was no easy task in itself.
The police tape came down for easier access. Yet another liner had to be ordered—those police were hard on water features. “Third time’s the charm,” Pru said to Chiv, who replied, “Fifth.” At least the metal grating escaped damage.
Chiv brought in the antique gas pump—Pru could see the red star of the Texaco sign on it from halfway up Main Avenue—and he allowed the Aussies to have at the wall, while he danced up and down the forty-foot serpentine length advising, pointing, adjusting. Christopher and a couple of others manhandled the shed, putting it back on its foundation.
Sweetie and Skippy (Ima Jean and Melursh, Pru remembered) worked at the back of the site with several others, setting the hedgerow to rights. KayAnn and Nell had mostly given up on their work attire and now wore floral-patterned Wellies with their star-patterned tights and sateen short shorts and crocheted cardigans that hugged their bums. They stood at the edge of the pond—the reservoir for the spring—holding the grate between them as three fellows snugged the liner in and replaced the stones that held down the edge.
“Who are they?” Pru asked Chiv.
“They’re crew from Prince Harry’s garden—courtesy of KayAnn and Nell. I don’t know how they managed it, and I’m not asking.”
—
Pru surveyed press day at the Chelsea Flower Show from one of the temporary chairs set at the back of the garden. Journalists and photographers from newspapers and from online sites that covered news, gardens, fashion, design, and art strolled up and down as designers strutted and contractors sighed with relief. Actors from television and film all became gardeners on press day at Chelsea, telling stories for the cameras of how they had always helped their dear mother plant carrots and still go home every spring to lend a hand. And perhaps every word of it was true, although Pru would like to get a look at those cuticles to verify.
She pulled at the thin, three-quarter-sleeve cardigan she wore—a size smaller than she would’ve chosen for herself, but she had allowed KayAnn and Nell to shop for her. She wore the cardy over, but in no way actually covering, a rose-red summer frock with a deep neckline. Espadrilles on her feet, but not really high-heeled ones. Her outfit for the day was completed by her left wrist, still wrapped, and a bruise on her forehead. At least those on her back were covered. But, oh well, could be worse. Could be raining.
“More Than Rock and Stone” couldn’t have looked better. The bluebonnets had responded to the continued warm spring weather—more and more were opening and would throughout show week. Tickseed, blanketflower, paintbrush, all accounted for. The wall looked as if it had been there a hundred years and the shed that doubled as the façade of the gas station still listed a bit, but that only added to its charm.
She sipped a glass of champagne and basked in the sunshine. She’d had her first glass while the judging panel asked Roddy questions about the garden. She had stood across the roadway—handlers acted as if the judges were rock stars, keeping everyone far enough away so that no one could eavesdrop on the proceedings.
Pru wasn’t above seeking some last-minute reassurance from Roddy, and had pulled him aside before he met with the panel. “Remember, Roddy,” she had said, “I saved your life; you said it yourself, you owe me.”
No need to worry—Roddy was in a merry and magnanimous mood, having only just heard from Singapore that his design contract had been reaffirmed. “I owe it all to you—and Twyla,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the judges and their handlers headed for “Welcome to Oz,” and Roddy gave Pru a thumbs-up before strolling off to be near the BBC cameras, just in case.
Everyone concerned breathed a sigh of relief—and put off worrying about the outcome of judging, which wouldn’t be announced until the following morning. Pru didn’t care what they got, although she hoped for a good showing for Chiv’s sake.
With the judging out of the way, Pru had accepted her second glass of champagne. And so that was why she had the nerve to boss Damien Woodford around. He stood nearby and had been watching Rosette, who sat in her wheelchair—n
o weight on that ankle for a month—talking with Ivory.
“Rosette says she’ll be leaving for Texas by the end of the week,” Pru said.
“Yes,” Damien said, frowning.
“Have you told her you want her to stay?”
“Tell her—”
“Please, don’t even try to deny it and don’t pull this ‘in-law’ business—you aren’t related. I think you’d better speak up.” Damien didn’t move, but his gaze shifted from Pru to Rosette. “Go on,” Pru said. “Shoo.”
Pru waved at her brother, Simon, his wife, Polly, next to him as they strolled through the crowd. She noticed Chiv, wearing cream-colored linen trousers, a red-striped blazer, and—wait for it—a boater, chatting in an uncharacteristically animated fashion with Arthur Nottle. There’s a pair, Pru thought. Iris had returned to Hereford—Pru wondered how much longer that partnership would last. Far up Main Avenue, she could see KayAnn and Nell—they wore summer frocks, too, but both their hems and their espadrilles were much higher than Pru’s. It looked as if Nell was talking to a tall, good-looking man with reddish-blond hair. Pru squinted—it couldn’t be. Could it?
Christopher arrived with a plate of food. No striped blazer and boater for him, but he’d managed to come up with a jacket a shade of green that reminded her of new beech leaves. And it brought out green flecks in his brown eyes that she’d never seen before. It suited him, and together, she decided, they looked a bit like a rose garden. He gave her a kiss and offered her the plate.
“Oh, lovely, thanks.” But Pru had only one working hand, and at that moment it held a glass of champagne.
“Shall I take that for you?” Christopher asked.
“No, look now.” Pru slid the slender stem of champagne between two immobilized fingers on her left hand. “Sorted—my own glass holder.” She popped a small savory pastry in her mouth—mmm, something with cheese and a bit of heat. Quite good. When she had swallowed, she asked, “Will you sit with me?”
“I will. Let me open that next bottle of champagne, shall I?”
“Yes, please.” She finished off her glass and handed it over. Christopher moved off to the tub of ice and champagne they were sharing with “Welcome to Oz.”
Pru sat alone, enjoying the people, the color, the gardens. She smiled. After a moment, she said, “Can you believe it? Here we are at the Chelsea Flower Show.”
“Yes,” Twyla answered. “Isn’t it glorious?”
To Leighton, husband and research assistant
Acknowledgments
You may think that an American garden at the Royal Horticultural Society’s Chelsea Flower Show is part of the fiction in this story, but you would be wrong. There have been several garden displays from the United States through the years. But not from the Austin Rock Garden Society, which is a figment of my imagination. True inspiration for this book comes from both the Texas hill country—a sight to behold in late March and early April—and the Chelsea Flower Show. I highly recommend a visit to each.
I’m indebted to many friends and colleagues who have helped in my research and writing. Andrew Wilson, garden designer, who has both judged at Chelsea and designed and built gardens at the show (but not in the same year), generously answered a multitude of questions. Andrew and his business partner, Gavin McWilliam (Wilson McWilliam Studio), allowed me use of a work pass so that I could see the incredible transformation of the Royal Chelsea Hospital grounds from football pitch to world-class show all within a month. I’m grateful to my dear friend Victoria Summerley, gardener and writer, who opens her home to me for visits and on-the-ground research (touring gardens, having tea and cake); my writing group, Kara Pomeroy, Louise Creighton, and Joan Shott; my agent, Colleen Mohyde at the Doe Coover Agency, for the support; Kate Miciak at Alibi for the great encouragement and sharp editing; and the copyediting staff for catching all those loose ends.
BY MARTY WINGATE
The Potting Shed Mysteries
The Garden Plot
The Red Book of Primrose House
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
The Skeleton Garden
The Bluebonnet Betrayal
The Birds of a Feather Mysteries
The Rhyme of the Magpie
Empty Nest
PHOTO: MARY M. PALMER
In addition to the Potting Shed Mysteries, MARTY WINGATE is also the author of The Rhyme of the Magpie and Empty Nest, her Birds of a Feather Mysteries. A well-known speaker on gardens and travel, she has written numerous nonfiction books on gardening, including Landscaping for Privacy. Marty’s garden articles have appeared in a variety of publications, including The American Gardener and Country Gardens. She is hard at work on her next novel.
martywingate.com
Facebook.com/MartyWingateAuthor
@martywingate
If you enjoy Marty Wingate’s Potting Shed mysteries,
read on for an excerpt from the first novel in her enchanting
Birds of a Feather mystery series:
The Rhyme of the Magpie
Available now
Chapter 1
One for sorrow, two for joy;
Three for a girl, four for a boy;
Five for silver, six for gold;
Seven for a secret, never to be told;
Eight for a wish, nine for a kiss;
Ten for a bird that’s best to miss.
Four magpies in their black-and-white court jester outfits strutted about on the pavement when I stepped out of my cottage. I gave the door a sharp tug to make sure it latched and looked down the empty high street toward the green. The birds had the place to themselves—the village was mostly deserted midmorning on a weekday, as the majority of residents commuted into London. I turned right for the short walk to work, and the birds lumbered off into the road when I passed, hopping and skipping a few times before they took flight. One looked over his shoulder and locked a beady black eye on me as he lifted off.
Four—I must ring Bianca later today and give her a scare. I had spotted four magpies the last time my sister had discovered herself pregnant. Little Emmet had recently turned two. Dad had observed three birds when Bee was pregnant with Enid, and Mum the time before that, predicting the sex of my niece Emelia, now ten. I had told my sister that the magpies were an early warning system, and she told me to shut it. But in a nice way. We loved each other, my sister and I. I also loved her husband, Paul, and all three—with perhaps the fourth on the way—of Bee’s dear, sweet children. I particularly loved the fact that they lived at the other end of England.
A cold gust of wind caught me from behind, sending my hair into my face. The first of May in Suffolk—a somewhat dodgy experience. I turned up the collar of my coat and tucked my hair behind my ears. I still wasn’t used to this shorter cut—those twelve inches of hair had been good insulation against a cold neck. Even so, you won’t hear me say a word against a chin-length bob and uneven bangs that hang down too far into my eyes. This flapping hair was part of the New Me, only three months old, and I would wear it proudly.
I cut across the high street, wishing that it had been necessary to sidestep a busload of tourists. It was my life’s work—my new life. Lure tourists into Smeaton-under-Lyme, where they would be enchanted with the picturesque village and its tales of ancient Romans and pillaging Vikings, and where they could spend a few pounds in the shops and pubs. The Earl Fotheringill—my employer and owner of not just the village and my Pipit Cottage, but also the parkland, farms, managed woodlands, holiday cottages, and various historic sites around the estate—counted on me to make it happen.
As I arrived at the door of the tourist center, my second-in-command stepped out. “There you are, Julia,” she said. “I’m just off for fresh milk.”
I looked down at the time on my phone. “But, Vesta, it’s only two minutes till ten o’clock. Lord Fotheringill is never late. He’ll wonder where you are.”
Vesta Widdersham squinted against the glare of the gray skies and clipped sunglasses on
to her pearly cat-eye frames. “He takes no notice of me. I’ll just dash up to the shop. I’ll get us a packet of biscuits, too—we’re low. What do you think—bourbon creams?”
“Malted milk?” I asked without any hope of getting them.
Tilting her head to the side, she looked at me out of the corner of her glasses and gave me half a smile. “Too ordinary.” Vesta saw a connection between biscuits and courting that I didn’t see, and as the Earl Fotheringill was divorced, Vesta thought I should be interested. I was getting the distinct and slightly unpleasant feeling that the earl thought along the same lines.
“We’re not here to put on a show,” I said.
“You’ve got to give them what they want,” she said with a sly look.
“Vesta!”
“Biscuits,” she said. She ran a hand through her short hair that was a shade she called “champagne.” Vesta, a retired home healthcare nurse, had about as much experience in the tourism industry as I did, but she played an important role at these meetings with Lord Fotheringill—she was a buffer.
“You’ll hurry, won’t you?” I asked.
“Someone rang just now and asked for you,” she said, cinching her pink raincoat up around her thin frame. “He didn’t leave a name or a message, but he did sound familiar.” She looked at me with fake innocence and a perplexed frown.
I felt a dull ache start up in my chest as I sensed my old life as a foxhound and me up a tree. “You’d better get the milk.”
Vesta answered with a tiny backward wave as she walked away. I stood on the pavement for a moment and viewed our shop-front window as a visitor might. Gold-leaf lettering read “Tourist Information Center” and the small space was cut almost in half by a counter. In front of the counter were racks of leaflets touting the many attractions around the estate. A poster of the abbey ruins hung on the wall, and the counter was awash in promises: “Buy fresh local produce at the Smeaton-under-Lyme farmers’ market—opening in June” and “Celebrate Summer Solstice in Suffolk.” In back of the counter was our work area, which comprised a small table, a computer, a kettle, a fridge barely big enough for a carton of milk, and a loo.
The Bluebonnet Betrayal Page 28