Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (10 page)

Pru waited until the last moment to get up, using her final hour in bed as the only good sleep she got. She hurried across the bridge where Iain fell, unable to keep from glancing across the road—the previous morning she had not even noticed the blue-and-white tape that cordoned off the stone steps leading down to the path along the water. A figure, turning the sharp corner ahead, caught her eye. Murdo. Pru picked up her pace, but a gaggle of mothers and pushchairs made it to the corner ahead of her—a precursor to Daffadowndilly Days, no doubt—and by the time she could step into the road to pass them, Murdo was nowhere in sight.

A strong wind came from all directions, alternately pushing her back and driving her up the road, teasing her hair out of its clip. As she neared her building, pausing to secure her wild strands, she noticed that a woman stood waiting. She wore a dark suit and had short, black hair that stuck out in gelled spikes all over the top of her head. Pru admired hair that did what it was told. But the hair didn’t hold her attention for long, because from behind the woman stepped a uniformed policeman. Pru’s steps slowed.

“Pru Parke?” asked the woman, drawing a wallet out of her pocket.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

The wallet turned out to be a warrant card, police identification. “Detective Sergeant Tamsin Duncan, and this is PC Scott. We’d like you to come with us to the Comely Bank station to answer a few questions about the death of Iain Blackwell.”

Pru didn’t move. She didn’t think she could. “Iain had an accident. Why do you need to ask me about it?”

Sergeant Duncan still clutched her police identification, spinning it around in her hand; her voice wasn’t hard, but not all that friendly, either. “It appears that Mr. Blackwell died under suspicious circumstances.”

Pru shook her head, as if shaking up the words would put them in a more understandable order. “He slipped—I thought he slipped and hit his head.”

“Would you come with us, please?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Pru could see two or three people in the distance, standing near the walk to Inverleith House. “I…yes, of course.” Her face grew warm as Sergeant Duncan and PC Scott, one on either side, escorted her out of the employee gate and into the backseat of a car. “Can you tell me why you need to talk with me? If it wasn’t an accident, how did he die? Was there a witness? It happened in the afternoon, didn’t it? My neighbor said she found him.” With each question, her thoughts gained speed. “I need to let Alastair Campbell know I’ve gone—he may be looking for me.” Fat chance of that, she thought. Her hands started to shake.

“It’s all been taken care of,” Duncan said. “You won’t be missed.” A moment of silence. “What I mean is,” the sergeant said, shoving her identification into her pocket and taking out a pen, which she twirled around before putting it back, “Mr. Campbell knows you’ll be with us.”

The car journey was quiet, except for the sergeant drumming her fingers on the dashboard, until Scott glanced in the rearview mirror and asked, “How were the snowdrops this year?”

The sergeant looked at him, and he shrugged. If Pru hadn’t been in the backseat of a police car, she might have appreciated the young man’s interest. “I started here three weeks ago,” she said, “and they were just going over.”

That ended conversation until they arrived at the station. They escorted Pru through the lobby and into an interview room that had two small windows near the ceiling, three chairs, and a table that held a microphone and recording console. Sergeant Duncan nodded Pru into a chair before leaving, saying they would be back directly.

Pru pulled her clip out, combed it through her hair, and reclipped. She looked at herself in a mirror that covered the wall in front of her until she realized it was probably a two-way mirror, and she was on display. She kept her eyes on the table and her hands in her lap. They were cold and clammy, but her face was hot.

She sat alone for what felt like ages with nothing to do but think about Iain and his death. She glanced around at the sterile walls of the interview room and reminded herself: I’m in a police station. The officers would talk with everyone at the garden, wouldn’t they? It seemed a lot of trouble to bring each person Iain had contact with to this place for an interview, though. Or did they have a reason to suspect her above all others? Nonsense, she told herself. The last time she saw him he’d gone off in a huff toward the west gate and she had retraced her steps east. She hadn’t been the one to come upon the scene at the bridge. Even so, Pru easily conjured up an image of his body splayed out on the rocky bottom, the shallow water—clear but stained brown from the peat bogs in the Pentland Hills—washing over him.

DS Duncan returned accompanied by a man several inches shorter. He had neat gray hair and a well-trimmed mustache.

“Ms. Parke, this is Detective Inspector Blakie,” the sergeant said as she straightened her jacket and placed pen and paper on the table. She knocked them off as she reached for a button on the console.

She bent down, had trouble getting hold of the paper, and dropped the pen again.

“Sergeant,” the inspector said in a warning tone.

“Sorry, sir,” she replied.

He sighed. “Oh, go on, then.”

“Thank you, sir,” Duncan said. She pulled a blister pack from her jacket pocket, popped out a piece of Nicorette, shoved it in her mouth, and began chewing furiously. She exhaled, pressed a button on the console, and announced the date, time, and who was in the room. They’re questioning me, Pru thought. I’m a suspect.

“Ms. Parke,” the inspector began, “can you tell us where you were Monday afternoon, from two o’clock until five?”

An inevitable question, and one she’d had ample time to contemplate. She went through the hours as best she could: working in her office, meeting with Iain, walking out with Iain and continuing their…discussion, after which she left for Madame Fiona’s.

“You followed Mr. Blackwell across the grounds?” the sergeant asked.

Pru nodded. “He was walking toward the west gate. I didn’t follow him all the way there—I had an appointment. I turned back, went by my office, and left through the east gate.”

“Did you see anyone else at the Botanics during that time? Did anyone see you and Mr. Blackwell walking through the garden?” She didn’t think so. “And where was your appointment?”

Wedding dress. Wedding. Christopher. Her heart sank, and she fought to keep the tears at bay as she thought how frustrated he would be—too far away to save her from this. Whatever this was.

“I had an appointment for a dress fitting. My wedding dress.” She dug in her bag. “I have Madame Fiona’s address and phone,” she said, handing over the business card with its bent corners. “I was there until after five, and then I went home.”

Duncan took the card as the inspector asked, “And how would you characterize your relationship with Mr. Blackwell?”

Pru swallowed. “We’re…we were working together on a project for the garden. It’s a research project, and we had to consult and discuss topics almost every day. I started a few weeks ago. I’m only here for three months. There’s still a lot to do.”

“Was it a friendly collaboration?” he asked.

She lifted her chin. “We didn’t always agree. Co-workers don’t have to get along in order to accomplish something.”

“Ms. Parke, you were seen arguing with Mr. Blackwell shortly before he was killed.”

Pru couldn’t find her voice for a moment. “We had a disagreement,” she said and cleared her throat. “Yes, we argued.”

“And the subject of the argument?” Blakie asked.

“It was about the project,” Pru said, feeling her face go scarlet, making it obvious it was about so much more—Pru’s worth, her skill, the reason Alastair hired her.

“This wasn’t the first time the two of you had argued in public,” the inspector said.

Pru swallowed hard. “We may have let our disagreements spill out the door. It wasn’t…I didn’t mean to…Nothing we said to each other would have caused anyone to think…” Every sentence she tried seemed to get away from her and head toward an unpleasant ending.

“Do you know of anyone Mr. Blackwell didn’t get on with?” the inspector asked, his mustache twitching.

Anyone
else
, Pru thought, that’s what he means. “No, I don’t.”

“And how did Mr. Blackwell seem on the last afternoon you saw him? Agitated?”

Frustrated, Pru thought—with her. She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to focus on that conversation in her office. She frowned. “He…I don’t think he felt well.”

Blakie raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? He was ill?”

“I don’t know,” Pru said. “He seemed a bit peaky. Maybe unsteady on his feet—like he was dizzy.” She shook her head. “It could be nothing.”

Blakie glanced sideways at his sergeant and nodded. She began writing; Pru’s eyes raced back and forth between the two officers.

“You know a great deal about plants, don’t you, Ms. Parke?” the inspector asked.

“Of course I know about plants—I’m a gardener, it’s my job.” That was probably the wrong tone to take, she thought. “How did Iain die? I thought it was an accident—that he hit his head.”

The inspector stood. “I hope you don’t mind waiting a bit longer, Ms. Parke,” he said.

Duncan clicked off the recorder. They left and she sat. Eventually, she got out her mobile and began checking for messages—the modern woman’s version of cleaning out her purse when she had nothing else to do. When the door opened, she jumped.

“We’re just checking a few things, Ms. Parke,” Sergeant Duncan said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Duncan’s demeanor had calmed considerably—Pru noticed she was still chewing.

“Yes, thanks. Do you know how long I’ll have to be here?”

“Really, we’re just chasing down details of your statement. It’s all right if you want to ring someone. Your fiancé?”

Pru shook her head and the sergeant left, but returned in a short time with a polystyrene beaker of tea, which was hot and tasted far better than it probably was. But as Pru sat drinking—alone again—the mirror loomed large, not just in her vision, but also in her mind. Who watched her? Were they using isolation to see if she’d crack under the pressure? What did they expect her to do? She jumped up from the table—they could keep her, they could make her wait for hours, but they couldn’t make her sit down. She paced, trying to keep her back to the mirror at all times, and ended up standing to one side of it, in the corner and behind the door, arms crossed in defiance.

The door opened and after a moment, Duncan peered round. “Not long now. Do you need the loo? It’s just across the hall.”

Leave it to a woman to think of these things, Pru thought, as she dashed in and out. Duncan returned her to the room and Pru paced again, but she grew weary. And hungry. Surely it was long past lunchtime. Duncan again at the door.

“Right, Ms. Parke, I’m sorry this took so long. We were trying to reach Madame Fiona and just now got her. You can go, but we may need to speak with you again. Come on”—Duncan nodded—“I’ll walk you out. You’ve someone waiting for you.”

Oh God, Pru thought. Someone from the garden has come to tell her that her services were no longer needed. Alastair? The regius keeper? This wasn’t the kind of publicity they wanted for the garden, she was sure of that. She’d be sent packing. Worse than quitting—she would be let go. What a disaster this has been, she thought.

She followed the sergeant down the hall to the end, where it opened into the reception area of the station. Standing across the room by the front desk with his overnight bag at his feet, Christopher was deep in discussion with Inspector Blakie.

Pru let out a small gasp. “The cavalry has arrived,” she said under her breath.

Duncan looked at her and smiled. “He’s been talking nonstop to the inspector for the last twenty minutes.”

“Really?” Pru asked, not taking her eyes off Christopher. “I’ve never heard him talk that much.”

He’d seen her, and their eyes locked as he continued talking with Blakie. Duncan walked with her over to the two men. As they approached, Pru heard Blakie say, “I won’t be intimidated.”

“Quite right,” Christopher replied. He put his hand lightly on Pru’s back, and she leaned into it. “There’ll be no problem with getting you the information,” he continued. “When you ring London, they’ll send you all you need—I’ll see to it.”

“Ms. Parke,” Inspector Blakie said, “thank you for your time. I understand that you have a British passport—dual citizenship—and we’ll be able to get all the particulars.”

She threw a grateful glance at Christopher. “Can you tell me how Iain died?”

“He was hit on the head and fell into the Water of Leith,” Blakie stated.

She took a couple of breaths and asked, “He didn’t slip?”

Blakie smiled. “You’re from Texas, Ms. Parke?” Police, she thought, always good at duck and dodge. “Good climate for growing veg?” he asked. Behind him, Duncan rolled her eyes.

Pru wasn’t sure if there was a point to this or if it was just a smoke screen. “I used to grow peas, beans, the odd courgette,” she said.

“Enter any competitions?”

She saw the gleam in his eye. “Well,” she said and shrugged casually, “I got a third place one year.” No need to say it was in 4-H for a tomato that looked like Jimmy Durante. “And you?”

“Parsnips.” He nodded once to confirm. “First prize in Midlothian competition three years running. Just ready to sow this year’s crop.”

“Palace? Gladiator?” she asked, grateful that someone had left a copy of Mr. Fothergill’s seed catalog in the employee room at the garden.

Blakie raised an eyebrow. “Palace, of course.” He brushed his fingertips over his mustache. “Now, Ms. Parke, we’ll have someone drive you and DCI Pearse. I’m assured you won’t be leaving Edinburgh—there is the odd chance we’ll need to speak to you again.”

“I can drive them, sir,” Duncan said from behind Blakie. “I’ll go round and meet you in the car park,” she said, nodding them toward the front door. “It’s the red Ford Fiesta.”

The sergeant walked back down the hall, and Christopher and Pru left through the front door. Outside, they stopped, and he put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. She looked up at him as the foot traffic flowed around them. “How did you know I was here?” she asked.

He watched her for a moment before he said, “Marcus told me.”

Her eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “Marcus?”

“He rang this morning,” Christopher said. “I’m not sure how he found me, and I didn’t take the time to ask once he told me what had happened. I stopped by my flat and went straight to City Airport.”

So, she thought, Marcus had been one of the people watching as the police took her away. She and Christopher walked round the building to the car park, but couldn’t continue their conversation, because Sergeant Duncan waited for them, leaning against her red Ford Fiesta and sucking on a cigarette as if it was a triple-thick milk shake.

“No,” she said into her phone, “just a couple of puffs.” She nipped the burning end of the cigarette off and put the rest in her jacket pocket. “Yes, I still have gum. Right, see you soon.” She noticed Pru and Christopher, and held her phone out. “He hasn’t smoked a day in his life. He has no idea what it’s like.”

They crammed into the backseat. Christopher took Pru’s hand. They were like a couple of teenagers on a date with Mom driving, except Mom in this case was a police officer who reeked of tobacco.

“When’s the wedding?” Duncan asked, glancing in the rearview mirror at Pru.

Pru smiled despite her circumstances. “June,” she said. “Late June.”

The sergeant nodded. “I’m getting married in September.” She continued to nod, as if to reassure herself. “If we can get it all arranged. Who knew there was so much to it?”

“I certainly didn’t,” Pru said.

“Where?” Duncan asked.

“Sorry?” Pru said.

“Where are you getting married?”

“Where?” Pru echoed. Where, indeed? “Well, we haven’t quite decided”—she looked at Christopher for help—“have we?”

“Here in Edinburgh,” he said with conviction. “We haven’t settled on the venue yet.”

“Cutting it a bit close, I’d say,” Duncan replied, causing a roaring in Pru’s ears. “Our church has been booked for a year, and the hotel, too, for the reception.”

“We have someone helping with details,” Pru said. “She has it all under control.” Must phone Jo.

The sergeant left them at the corner. “We’ll be back in touch, Ms. Parke,” she said and drove away.

Pru and Christopher stood quiet for a moment. The wind had been replaced by a heavy mist—
haar
was the Scottish word—that landed like tiny beads on their hair and coats. Pru sighed. “Welcome to Edinburgh,” she said.

Christopher smiled, rubbed the back of her neck with his thumb, and kissed her temple. “Which way?”

She nodded down her road, and they walked arm in arm. As they neared her flat, Marcus came down the front path, and they all stopped.