Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (15 page)

Pru’s first visit to Alastair’s had been in the dark on the evening of her arrival in Edinburgh. But she’d walked New Town enough to know her way around, and so finding the mid-terrace house near Bellevue Crescent again was no trouble. Marcus had parked nearby, and he got out of the car as she approached.

“You didn’t buy a car while you’re here, did you?” she asked him as a greeting.

“No, it belongs to Angus—he let me borrow it.”

“That was brave of him.”

“Hey, I’m a good driver.”

“You’re a fast driver,” Pru replied as they stood on the front step. “Are you staying on the left side of the road?”

“Most of the time.” Marcus rang the bell.

Their host opened the door, and his eyes grew wide at the sight before him. “Pru?”

“Hello, Alastair,” Pru said, smiling broadly. “Marcus asked me along this evening—this is so kind of you.” Translation: You may be able to avoid me and my questions about the Menzies project at the garden, but you can’t conveniently be “out of the office” in your own home.

“Yes, lovely to see you,” he replied, standing in the doorway until it became clear that he would have to let her in. “Welcome, both of you.” They filed in, and Alastair collected a bottle of wine from each of them.

“Did Marcus tell you I’ve been looking for you?” Pru asked.

Alastair squirmed. “Not a minute, you see, I’ve had not a minute to…Rosemary,” he called down the hall, “guests.”

Rosemary looked in from the kitchen. Alastair’s wife, tall and thin with steel-gray hair done up in a French twist, wore black wool trousers, a fine black wool sweater set, and chunky gold earrings and necklace. Her dramatic coloring made her blue eyes stand out and set off the scarlet of her lips. She smiled and held out her hand. Introductions were made, Alastair poured glasses of sparkling wine, and Rosemary placed a tray of tiny rounds of brown bread topped with a sliver of smoked salmon and dot of cream cheese on the low table in front of them.

Pru wouldn’t consider herself to be a fashion plate, but she had taken off her coat with pride, wearing her own best wool trousers and a Harvey Nichols sweater in a deep shade of teal with a scoop neck in soft folds that accentuated her art deco necklace. Mrs. Murchie had spotted the sweater at her charity shop and kept it back for Pru.

After some small talk, Rosemary stood. “I’ll just pop into the kitchen to check on the dinner.”

“Let me help you,” Pru said, jumping up. She noted the look of relief on Alastair’s face as she left the room.

“So, Pru, how are you finding Edinburgh? Settling in?” Rosemary said as she shifted plates, took a pork roast out of the oven, and began assembling a salad.

Pru helped by staying out of Rosemary’s way—she leaned against a counter by the swinging door. “I’m enjoying the work, and I love the garden. It’s been difficult, of course, about Iain.”

Rosemary paused, holding a serving dish of roasted parsnips. “God, that was dreadful. Poor Iain. I got back the day after it happened. Alastair hasn’t really wanted to talk about it much, of course.” She glanced at Pru. “You see, I knew Iain down in Surrey, oh God, it was donkey’s years ago. Iain and I were…” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I certainly wasn’t the only one. And I had never said anything to Alastair about him, until two years ago, when Iain took the post here. When that happened, I had to explain about it.”

It? Pru’s radar whirred like mad. Rosemary, Iain, and “it”?

“Once Alastair got over the initial shock,” Rosemary continued, “he seemed to be fine, but lately he’s been…” She looked at the door. “I know you’ll be discreet about this.”

Alastair popped his head in, and Pru smiled at him serenely. He coughed. “Anything I can do, dear?” he asked his wife.

“Oh, yes, would you take the salad out for me, my love? And you and Marcus just relax—it’ll be a few minutes longer.” Alastair disappeared with the large bowl.

“You see,” Rosemary said, “this is a second marriage for both Alastair and me.” She shook her head slightly. “My first wasn’t with Iain, of course. But, you know, sometimes in a relationship it takes a while to get round to all the stories in your past.” She handed Pru a spoon. “Give the sauce for the pork a taste and tell me what you think.”

Pru stuck the spoon in the dark sauce and then in her mouth—herbs, garlic, wine. “Mmm—could I just have a bowl of this, do you think?”

Rosemary laughed. “That one is always a favorite.”

“You do a lot of cooking?”

“I started in the school kitchens at a college down in Surrey—Merrist Wood. After that, I moved up here and opened a restaurant nearby. That’s how Alastair and I met. But running a restaurant is a hard life, so I sold it, and these days I do catering—book launches during the festival, political fund-raisers, weddings.”

Pru held her breath. “I’m getting married,” she said. “In June.”

“Congratulations!” Rosemary said, glancing at the door to the front room. “That’s wonderful.”

Pru followed her gaze and shook her head. “No, not Marcus.” She sent a dismissive wave in his direction. “We’re old friends. I’m marrying Christopher Pearse”—a happy laugh escaped her—“he lives in London, but we’re getting married here. Somewhere. We haven’t found a church yet, and I guess we’re a little late starting the search.”

“But why aren’t you getting married at the garden?” Rosemary asked as she slipped the pork roast onto a cutting board and began slicing.

“Well, you know, what would the weather do?”

“There’s always Caledonian Hall—it isn’t a large wedding party, is it?”

“Tiny, just family and a few friends—you mean Caledonian Hall near the east gate? That’s a lovely building—they allow weddings there? I thought it was just for conferences.”

“It’s a popular spot for a summer wedding. If it’s available, we could work up a lovely do for you—dinner, as well? What about the cake? Would you like me to look into it all?”

Pru nodded vigorously as an enormous weight lifted off her shoulders. A venue, food, and cake taken care of in the blink of an eye. She’d peeked in the windows of Caledonian Hall and had only a vague idea of the interior, but her mind quickly painted the scene with low vases of roses on round tables, candlelight, sparkling wine, the scent of that amazing pork sauce in the air, Christopher’s eyes on her from across the room.

“…and how strange that you are from Dallas, and that there would be this other Dallas, but it certainly worked out well for you—don’t you think?” Rosemary asked.

Blinking quickly, Pru said, “Um, what other Dallas?”

“The Laird’s estate—the one who’s sponsored your project—and what an interesting connection with your Dallas. Well, I can tell you that the offer of such a generous donation to the garden was just the spark that Alastair needed. The Australian National Botanic Garden in Canberra has to sit up and take notice now—look at how he can bring in money. And with their development position coming open soon…”

Bullets of information ricocheted around the room so fast Pru was afraid she would be hit by one—it was all she could do to keep from ducking. Little of it made any sense to her, but she grasped one important fact: Rosemary apparently knew a great deal more about Pru’s job than Pru did.

Rosemary took a sheet of grilled asparagus from the oven, set it on a hot plate, and put a hand on her hip.

“I’m afraid I can’t keep all those behind-the-scenes arrangements straight,” Pru said, fiddling with the serving spoons lined up on the counter. “Now, what’s this about the Laird and a connection to my Dallas?”

“Rosemary!” Alastair shouted. He stood in the doorway, white as a sheet. Clearing his throat and dropping his volume, he said, “Would you help me select the wine, my dear? The chef knows best, as always.”

She handed him the parsnips, gave the sauciere to Pru, took up the asparagus and roast platter herself, and headed out the door. “Oh, Alastair,” she said, giving him a smile and a kiss on the cheek as she passed, “you know you’re perfectly capable of choosing wine.”

Pru stood grinding her teeth and staring at Alastair, who seemed glued to the spot by her glare. Her entire time at the garden, he had been remarkably silent on the Laird and this “other” Dallas—where was it, in an alternate universe? His pallid face and the tic that had appeared by his right eye told Pru that he had overheard Rosemary drop those names. What were these secret arrangements made on Pru’s behalf? Alastair gave a nervous laugh. “We don’t want to hold up our meal—now do we?” Pru carried the sauciere past him without a word.

“Alastair, my love,” Rosemary said over coffee by the fire, “you didn’t tell me that Pru was getting married.”

“Are you?” Alastair responded with an uncertain tone, looking from Pru to Marcus.

“No, not Marcus,” Rosemary replied. “Someone from London.”

“Christopher was just up to visit over the weekend. In fact,” Pru said, “he arrived last Wednesday.” She kept her eyes on Alastair, to make sure he caught her subtext—Christopher arrived on the day they took her into the police station for questioning. “Oh, I didn’t mention, did I—Christopher is a detective chief inspector with the Met.”

Alastair went red as a beet. Rosemary said, “I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to meet him, but perhaps next visit? Alastair, don’t you think they could book the hall? I’ve offered to help, so I’ll need to see the schedule—I’m sure we can find a June date that’s open.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Pru saw Marcus staring down into his coffee—the odd man out of the conversation. “Rosemary,” Pru asked, coming to his rescue, “where in Australia did you say your sister lives?”

After Alastair closed the door, Pru stood on the front step and buttoned up her coat, but the heavy drizzle quickly insinuated itself between collar and neck, and a cold stream slipped down her back. She’d forgotten a hat.

“Come on,” Marcus said. “I’ll take you back.”

They got to the intersection at Canonmills, and Pru gasped as Marcus moved over for an oncoming truck—the mirror on her side came within a half inch of a parked car. She distracted herself by silently reciting the litany of information she needed to tell Christopher. Rosemary and Iain, hall, caterer, Dallas, Laird, Alastair…

“Can you wait until you get home?” Marcus asked.

She looked down to find that she’d already pulled the phone out of her bag and her index finger was scrolling up and down her phone list.

“Sorry.” She dropped the phone back into her bag. “It’s just that, we’re sort of late to planning, and now Rosemary has said she’ll help with the catering and we might be able to use Caledonian Hall for our wedding…” Shut up, Pru, she told herself. This was a discussion to have with Christopher or with a girlfriend, not with Marcus, because with Marcus it would only lead to…

“So when
he
asked you, you said yes.”

…that.

Darkness hid the color of her face. She looked out the window.

“Sorry,” Marcus said as pulled up to her corner. “You seem…really happy.” He drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel. “And I guess he’s okay.”

“Thanks.” Pru smiled, knowing the effort that took him. “How’s Krystal?”

Marcus cut his eyes at her, and then gave a small conciliatory nod. “She’s good,” he said. “She’s a really creative person, and good at business, too. She’s got some new thing going, and it’s taking a lot of her time.” He turned to Pru and smiled. “You’d like her.”

“Maybe I’ll get the chance to meet her sometime.”

Pru couldn’t sit still as she went over every detail on the phone with Christopher, and attempted to take off her sweater over her head while keeping the phone to her ear. Rosemary, Iain, her position at the garden, Alastair—it all came tumbling out at once.

“I realize that it isn’t unheard of,” she said.

“Having your position sponsored?” he asked.

“No, Iain’s relationship with Rosemary.”

“Still, the police will want to know, if they don’t already.”

“If my post was sponsored, why is it such a secret?”

“Yes, I’d say at this point, there’s very little political intrigue in Menzies’s career,” Christopher said.

“I’ll ring Tamsin about Rosemary and Iain. I want to tell her about Caledonian Hall, anyway. It’s really a lovely building, from what I’ve seen. Nineteenth-century, formal. We could have the ceremony and then shift things around for the dinner. Should I ask Alan to look at it? Wait till you taste Rosemary’s cooking—it’s fantastic. She’ll probably work up the whole menu for us—perhaps she could do a tasting next time you’re up. And she’ll sort out the cake, too. I’ll see if Jo wants to chat with her about arrangements. Do you—” She lost her grip on the phone for a second as she pulled off her trousers. “Sorry, do you want a special groom’s cake—something in addition to the…Oh. Do you want a traditional wedding cake?”

“Yes,” he said with emphasis, probably glad he could get a word in. “Will you try to talk with Alastair tomorrow?”

She plopped down on the bed out of breath, nightgown in hand. “No point in that—he’d turn himself into a piece of furniture to avoid me. I’ll begin elsewhere.”

“Good morning, Victoria,” Pru said. “Lovely spring day—did you see the
Corylopsis
? Those pale yellow flowers against the ground cover of blue
Pulmonaria
—gorgeous!”

Victoria had her hand on the door of the Botanics library. “Pru, good to see you looking so chipper,” Victoria said. “I was just nipping in to do a bit of research on the volunteer program at the Oslo botanic garden.” She looked over Pru’s shoulder and down the hall. “I hope you aren’t looking for Alastair—he’s out for the day.”

“Good,” Pru said, and then laughed. “I mean, no, I’m not looking for him. Actually, I need to stop by HR, because…well, there’s some difficulty with the direct deposit for my wages. I must’ve given them the wrong account number, you know, and I just wanted to stop in and ask about it.” She hoped that her pink cheeks would look like a reaction to the chilly morning and not to the lie she had just told.

“You haven’t been receiving your pay?” Victoria’s wide eyes widened farther. “Now that won’t do at all, I mean, really. After all the arrangements that needed to be made, you’d think that would be the last problem to present itself—not that I’ve been privy to the arrangements. Alastair has kept remarkably quiet on the entire proceedings. But however it happened, we’re awfully glad to have you here.” She patted Pru’s arm. “You know, I’d love to have you attend one of our children’s groups, they are fascinated by foreigners, and they’d be so very interested to hear an American talk about…well, anything really. I remember when…” and Victoria was off and running. Pru let her have free rein, and she listened carefully, in case Victoria let slip some truth about Pru’s situation, but instead the volunteer coordinator’s thoughts wandered off into a story of a visiting Peruvian botanist who told a group of ten-year-olds about what it was like to eat a guinea pig.

When Victoria paused to take a breath, Pru plunged in. “Well, I certainly don’t want to take you away from your research, I just thought you could remind me who it is in HR that has made all these arrangements for…you know, my project. That way I can clear things up.”

“Oh, well now, let me think. I believe it’s Elspeth—she’s the only one in that office that can really keep quiet when necessary.”

“Cheers, Victoria, thanks,” Pru said, leaving before Victoria could continue with the guinea pig story. “I’ll see you soon.”

Pru had only vague memories of the HR office from her start at the garden, when she signed papers and showed her British passport. She opened the door cautiously, and had a moment to scan the room. Four desks and a door to a separate office; two women tapping away at keyboards and staring at computer screens, two in a quiet conversation, and a young man standing at a wall of ledgers. Pru squinted at nameplates on each desk and approached one of the tappers, blond hair in a topknot and bubble-gum-pink cardigan stretched across an ample bosom.

“Hi, Elspeth,” Pru said, catching the woman’s eye and smiling. “I don’t know if you remember me—I’m Pru Parke, I started a few weeks ago, and I’m working on the Menzies journal. You helped me get all my paperwork in order.”

“Of course, Pru, and are you all settled in? What can I do for you?” Friendly, smiling, but Pru could see Elspeth’s hands hovering over the keyboard, and she knew she’d better get to the point.

“I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to work on this project,” Pru said, obsequious and low-key. “But I was in such a hurry to start when I arrived, that I didn’t take the time to properly thank the Laird for all the…arrangements.”

Elspbeth glanced around the office and whispered, “So, Alastair told you about the Laird, did he? As well he should, after all.”

In—almost in. “Yes,” Pru whispered back, “and so, I’d love to send a card and tell the Laird how much this means to me, you know, but I don’t know how to contact him.”

“Wouldn’t he just love a personal note from you? I doubt if you need to write anything more than his name and ‘Murray’ on any envelope to him, but if you’d like…” She began tapping her keyboard and swishing the mouse around.

“Elspeth,” the young man said, holding out a phone. “Barbara at SCVO for you.”

“Right, thanks.” She abandoned her keyboard, picked up the phone, and covered the mouthpiece while she said to Pru, “Why don’t you just drop it off here to me, and I’ll see he gets it.”

It wasn’t much, but it was more than she had before. Murray? she thought as she walked to her office. Was that the Laird’s name or was it a place? As she searched for the door key, her phone rang.

“Jo,” she answered, “perfect timing. I have wonderful news.” She filled her in on Rosemary’s plan for Caledonian Hall. “I’ll put you two in touch to sort things out.”

“That’s fantastic. And now,” Jo said, “a large box has just been delivered to your flat. It’s shoes.”

“You sent me a pair of shoes?”

“I sent you six pairs of shoes,” Jo replied. “You need to try them on and choose the pair you like the best. I’ll arrange to have the others collected. And, you might need to practice walking around your flat in the ones you keep.”

“Mmm,” Pru said. “You sent me heels and you want to know which pair I can manage without breaking my neck, is that it?”

“I know that you are perfectly capable of wearing a pair of heels and remaining upright,” Jo said. “You just need to get used to them. Have you heard from Madame Fiona?”

Panic gripped Pru around the throat. “So soon? Do you think she’s ready?”

“I expect she’ll ring this week—I know she’s working on something, although she’s keeping schtum about it. Just let me know how you get on. Must run—my client is here.”

Pru settled into the chair at her desk and logged on to her staff email account. She scrolled through announcements of upcoming botanical conferences, notices of special works carried out in the woodland garden, a party date for April birthdays—while in her mind, she stood on the dais at Madame Fiona’s in breathless anticipation of the unveiling. Until one email brought her back to the moment. The subject line read: “I’m watching.” She didn’t recognize the address.

What was this, spam? A sales pitch? A Nigerian doctor needing her help? Her fingers danced lightly above the keyboard before she clicked it open to find a single line: “I know what you are doing.”

It was so quiet in her office and the hall outside her door that she could hear herself breathing. She’d forgotten how alone she was in the building. She shook her head. Be logical, she thought to herself, this is spam, some ploy to get her to click through to a website that would steal all the information on her computer. She leaned over the keyboard and peered at the address of the sender: [email protected].

Oh my God, she thought, it’s porn. She laughed and then clapped her hand over her mouth. No telling what kind of games this couple got up to. A joke, but one that had been misdirected. Type a wrong letter or two on an address and who knows where the email would end up. Hadn’t everyone made that mistake at least once? Pru sniggered again. Bowwowbabe. She decided not to answer—really, that would be too embarrassing. “I’m sorry, your X-rated message was not received by the intended party.”

She jumped when the desk phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number and hesitated, but after five rings common sense prevailed.

“Pru Parke.”

“Pru, it’s Rosemary Campbell—I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

She’d dropped the thank-you note into the post that morning, but Pru thanked Rosemary over the phone, too, for the lovely dinner.

“I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but I did want to check back with you about your wedding. Did you have a particular date chosen, or would you be able to take what we could find? June is always tight, and at the moment I don’t see an opening at the hall for the entire month, but we might be able to do some creative scheduling.”

Pru’s emotions started on a roller-coaster ride. Maybe it’s possible, maybe it isn’t, maybe it is. “I wouldn’t want to disrupt anyone else’s plans, of course. We would take any day available—absolutely any day. Or time.” Pru pictured a dawn wedding, the sun just peering in the windows, everyone’s mouth opened wide in a yawn.

“Never fear, I’m sure we can do this for you and Christopher,” Rosemary said. “I know how important that day is for you. Oh, and, Pru,” she continued, her voice dropping slightly, “about what I told you last evening…”

The pause went on so long, Pru thought Rosemary had rung off. “Yes?” she asked.

“I really spoke out of turn. And I certainly wouldn’t want you to feel as if it was necessary for you to pursue the matter or apprise anyone else of the situation—just because of something I mentioned.”

Pru faltered. “You mean…”

“I mean that I wouldn’t want it to affect your work at the garden or”—an infinitesimal pause—“disrupt any plans you have for the rest of your stay in Edinburgh.”

“Yes,” Pru said. “Well, of course, I…”

Rosemary picked up the pace. “Right, well, we’ll just leave it at that, then, why don’t we? I’ll be in touch. Cheers, bye.”

Pru sat staring at her desk while visions of the perfect wedding day melted from the movie screen in her head. She understood only part of Rosemary’s warning—talk and the wedding plans are off. But at the dinner party, she had presented Pru with two fragments of information, neither complete: one, about the arrangements for her job, and the other, about Rosemary and Iain’s long-ago relationship. Which one did Rosemary want her to keep quiet about?

Pru realized it didn’t really matter. She’d already told Christopher everything. The shred of knowledge she’d gained about her job made her hungry for more; the idea that she’d been duped into taking the post wouldn’t go away—she must know what lay behind it all. And Tamsin needed to know about Rosemary and Iain. Silence wasn’t an option when it involved a murder investigation, even if it meant that she and Christopher would end up at the Blessed Church of the Holy Footsteps of Our Lord, with Sheena banging out a Highland fling on the organ.

No sense in postponing the inevitable. She found Tamsin’s card and rang, but Pru had to leave a message, offering the bare facts about a long-ago possible relationship between Iain and Rosemary. “Not that it has anything to do with his death,” she rushed on. “It’s just that, in case you didn’t know, I thought I’d better say. That’s all.”