Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (2 page)

Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh

Stockbridge

Edinburgh, Scotland

1 February

Primrose House

Dear Ms. Parke,

RBGE is both an educational and public institution involved in research as well as outreach.

We would like to discuss with you the possibility of your participation in a project that would include identifying and cataloguing documents recently recovered and in our temporary possession. These may or may not have been written by eighteenth-century plant explorer Archibald Menzies. We feel confident that you are aware of the contributions Menzies made to RBGE and the Royal Society, and will be as enthusiastic about this endeavour as we are to have you join us.

We want to be clear that this appointment would be for a three-month period only, to begin as soon as you are able to commit. Please contact us at your earliest convenience by phoning me on (0887) 5567221.

Yours sincerely,

Alastair R. Campbell

Director of Special Projects

RBGE

“A research project—I would probably end up writing a paper for a well-respected journal. Who knows what kind of job I could get after that? I know it’s far away from London, but it would be only temporary. And I wouldn’t be working seven days a week. We could have a few weekends together. And after that”—she took his hand—“I’m moving to London. I’m afraid you’ll just have to put up with me.”

“You could make quite a name for yourself with this, couldn’t you?” They sat on the sofa, and he read the letter. “Who is Archibald Menzies?”

“He’s a hugely important eighteenth-century plant hunter,” Pru said. For a moment, she saw herself presenting her paper at the next international botanical garden conference: “The Botany of History: Archibald Menzies Rediscovered.” She blushed at her own nerve and squeezed Christopher’s hand to ground herself. “He was Scottish. Well”—she shrugged—“those plant hunters were almost all Scots. And he traveled all over the world.” Too vague, she thought, and searched her memory for more detail. “He collected plants up and down the western coast of the US.” She drew her brows together. “I don’t seem to remember as much about him as some of the others. The plant hunters were such adventurers. George Forrest was lost in the Himalayas for weeks without shoes. Ernest Wilson came back from China with a broken leg that never healed correctly—he called it his ‘lily limp,’ because he’d been after the regal lily. David Douglas fell into a pit in Hawaii and was run through by a wild boar—supposedly an accident, but there have always been rumors. Menzies…” She ran her hand over the paper, hoping to absorb an anecdote. “Oh, wait. He’s the monkey puzzle man. He brought back seeds of that tree from Chile.” She looked down at the letter. “I haven’t really put myself out there as an expert on plant explorers,” she said. “And I never applied for a post in Edinburgh. I wonder why they thought of me.”

“They know your reputation,” Christopher pointed out.

Pru pursed her lips. “You mean they saw my name in the papers. Well, I can read up on him in London before I head north.”

“Have you been to Edinburgh?” Christopher asked.

Pru shook her head.

“It’s a fine city. The castle, Holyroodhouse, the Royal Mile…”

“The botanic garden,” she offered.

“Yes, and the garden.”

“How do you know so much about Edinburgh?”

“I visited a few times, ages ago, at half terms. And I took Graham up to the Highlands fishing one summer. One rainy summer. We were trying for brown trout, as I recall, but I don’t remember that we caught anything—except head colds. We spent the rest of the time recovering at a hotel in Edinburgh.”

“There’s a chapter I haven’t read yet,” Pru said. “You could be my personal tour guide.”

It was settled. Three months in Edinburgh—with visiting back and forth—after which she’d move to London. Pru rang Mr. Campbell to discuss the terms of the job. He told her that missing parts of the journal Archibald Menzies kept on the
Discovery
’s round-the-world voyage with Captain George Vancouver had been found. The purported journal was in private hands, but would be lent to the botanic garden for verification. Paper and ink would be evaluated and dated elsewhere; they wanted her to check the botanical information, and so help to authenticate the find. Campbell was professionally cordial and made it clear that she was chosen—no interview necessary—because of her recent work. What, she asked herself, finding a body outside the walled garden at Primrose House? Campbell said he looked forward to her arrival, at which time he would give her more details about the project. The pay, she told Christopher, was generous.

A job in her field spent indoors doing research instead of outside digging. But her decision didn’t seem to ease Christopher’s mind. Indeed he grew more pensive, quieter, frequently distracted. As his preoccupation grew, Pru often needed to call his attention back to the moment at hand. That morning, he’d stood in the kitchen, milk pitcher in hand and eyes focused on nothing, while she sat with her mug of coffee.

“Yes,” she’d said, raising her voice slightly.

He jumped and sloshed some milk onto the table. “What?”

“Yes,” she said, “I would like some milk.”

He looked at the jug in his hand as if trying to identify its contents. “Sorry.” He turned pink and sat down.

The night before, he’d been quiet as they ate dinner in the Jolly Sailor. They sat at a table against one of the whitewashed walls, just far enough away from the crackling fire to be warmed, not scorched. Twice Pru looked up from her food to find him watching her—not unusual, he did have that penetrating stare that both disconcerted and delighted her. He smiled, reached out for her hand, and took a breath, as if to say something, but nothing came out. Another smile, his thumb stroked the back of her hand, and he went back to eating.

Now it was afternoon, and she had dashed down the hill to the fishmonger’s at the waterfront to buy something for their dinner. Her errand turned into an extended walk through the village. She climbed the steep hill to the bookshop and perused titles of local history, contemplating what account of Cornwall she would take along with her when they left. Back down one hill, across the bridge, and up another steep incline, where, before plodding up the two flights to their flat, she paused to catch her breath and enjoy the view of rooftops that looked like stair steps down to the sea. Once at their door, she turned the key and walked in, to find Christopher looking as if he hadn’t moved a millimeter since she’d left—he sat at the window, staring out at the water.

Pru pushed the door closed and the lock
snicked
—that caught his attention. He stood, and she held up a paper-wrapped parcel. “John Dory,” she said. “Although I must say, I think it’s odd to eat a fish with a person’s name. We could bake it.” She used “we” in the royal sense here, meaning as usual, she would have no part in the cooking. “Christopher?”

He didn’t speak, but stood swaying slightly. Pru dropped the parcel on the table and walked over to him. His face was ashen, he breathed as if he’d run up the hill himself, and beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead. Oh God, she thought, he’s having a heart attack.

She put her hand on his chest and could feel the rapid beating. “You don’t look well—we should find a doctor.”

He grabbed her hands and clutched them to his breast, his eyes burning a hole in hers. He took in one long breath, exhaled, and said, “Will you marry me?”

Wow, she had read that one wrong. Good thing he had such a firm grip on her hands. Pru steadied herself against him, her heart speeding up to match his. It wasn’t that they hadn’t talked—they’d talked about being together, staying together. But they hadn’t talked about this. A smile spread slowly across her face. “Is this what you’ve been…preoccupied about?”

His face reddened. “I was trying to find the right moment,” he said.

Now in her early fifties, Pru had grown to believe that she would never marry. She’d been asked once and said no. She hadn’t wanted it then. But now…

Christopher began to fidget with her hands, which he continued to grasp. “You’ve not answered.”

“Say it again,” she whispered.

He relaxed now, put his hands on her waist and held her close. His serious face was foiled by a smile playing about his lips. “I love you, Pru Parke,” he said, “and I want us to spend the rest of our lives together. Will you please marry me?”

A small squeak escaped before she could stop it. She took a slow breath, and said, “Yes. Yes, Christopher Pearse. I will marry you.”

A delicious, warm feeling began to spread inside her. It reminded her of when she was a girl, and her dad fixed biscuits on Saturday mornings. He would set a jar of honey in a saucepan of warm water, so that when she dug a spoon into the thick, golden sweetness and held it up, it fell in a thick rope, making its way over both halves of the hot biscuit, oozing into every nook and cranny, and creating, as far as Pru was concerned, a piece of heaven.

She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck before kissing him. They contemplated each other before Pru laughed and asked, “Now what?”

“First things first,” he said. “We’d better get that fish in the fridge.”

And with that one simple question, their lives turned from luxurious days full of walks along the coast path and lunches at the Jolly Sailor to a flurry of conversations with family and friends, all of whom had many more questions than the two of them had answers. When? Where? What will you do? Where will you live?

When Pru finished the special project at the Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh. Where? In a proper place, Christopher said—a church, or perhaps a garden, if she’d like. That was a relief to Pru. “I really didn’t want to go down to the county courthouse,” she said to Jo on the phone, standing at the window of the flat as she watched Christopher head down to the shops for a newspaper. “Or whatever the London equivalent of the county courthouse is. Although I don’t want the wedding to be too…extreme.” Thoughts of yards of lace and reams of tulle made her squeamish.

Jo had needed a few moments to calm down after hearing the news, and during that time only snatches of what she said were intelligible: “so happy…hoped this would happen…he’s so lucky…” Only after she blew her nose and heaved a huge sigh was she able to put together an entire understandable sentence. “I’d love to help plan your wedding, Pru. Will you let me?” Jo had not yet been able to plan a wedding for Cordelia and Lucy. Pru would welcome all the advice she could get from Jo, who had excellent taste.

They’d had plenty of offers for a venue. Christopher’s sister, Claire, hoped that they would get married in her garden in Plymouth. Pru’s former employers the Templetons offered to host the wedding at their estate in Wales—currently, more ancient ruin than castle. Harry and Vernona Wilson said their Hampshire house, Greenoak, was Pru and Christopher’s for the asking. At first, Jo suggested her cousin’s country manor in the Cotswolds, but then recanted. “There just might be someplace more suitable,” she murmured—although she didn’t say where that might be.

Pru’s brother, Simon, at first speechless, mentioned the garden at Greenoak, too. When Pru was unable to reply—choked up with emotion along with a bit of panic wondering how they could accommodate everyone’s generosity—Simon’s wife, Polly, came to her rescue and said that congratulations were in order and practicality would follow. Pru still couldn’t see much beyond “Yes,” but promised to provide details as they came.

The call to Simon and his kind offer left Pru teary. The siblings had edged closer during a few visits, but Pru longed to break through the caution and learn what it was like to have a brother.

“And now I’ll be so far away,” she said.

“It isn’t John o’ Groats,” Christopher reminded her.

“No,” she said with a laugh, “I suppose it could be worse—although I won’t be able to pop down to Hampshire for a weekend. But after we’re married and I’m in London, it’ll be easy for us to go down for a visit.”

London beckoned. Christopher would get back to work as a DCI, and Pru would spend three weeks in the city researching Archibald Menzies and the botanic garden before heading to Edinburgh and her accommodations, provided by the RBGE. Before they left the flat in Cornwall, one more person needed to hear their announcement; she arranged a video call to Dallas, so that her dear friend Lydia Morales could hear the news face-to-face instead of by email.

“What will you say?” Christopher asked as he sat next to her in front of the laptop so they could both be seen on camera.

Pru snuggled closer. “I’ve known Lydia most of my life,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll have to say much at all.”

When the connection was made, Pru was first to speak. “Your hair—it’s gorgeous.” Lydia had lost her long locks and now sported a short cut so that her black hair, streaked with gray, curled just under her chin.

Running her hand through her hair, which obediently fell back into place, Lydia said, “It was driving me crazy.” Pru put her hand up to her own hair, pulled up and clipped to keep it out of the way. She and Lydia were the same age—was it time for a cut?

“How are you two?” Lydia asked.

Pru glanced over at Christopher, and back to the computer. “We’re fine. Where’s Ray? Where are the girls?”

Lydia stared at Pru for a moment before she gasped. “Oh my God. Oh my God.” Without taking her eyes off the screen, she began to yell, “Ray! Ray! Get in here now! Where are the girls? Yolanda! Dora! Lupe! Oh my God.” Her voice was rising in pitch.

Lydia’s husband appeared behind his wife. “What? What’s wrong?” Pru could hear one of the girls say, “Mama, Yolanda is talking to that creepy Felix—you said she wasn’t supposed to…”

“
Listen!
” Lydia shouted at them. “Listen—Pru and Christopher are getting married!”

More tears, more congratulations, more questions before everyone left Pru and Lydia alone for a proper talk. Lydia blew her nose on what looked like a tea towel. Pru waved at Christopher as he headed out the door to give the women some privacy.

“I’m so happy for you,” Lydia said. “Have you set a date? A place?”

“It’s all a bit up in the air at the moment,” Pru said. “But I’ll let you know as soon as we’ve settled on the details. I don’t suppose…you could come over for it?” It was a long shot, although she couldn’t help hoping.

Lydia cocked her head slightly. “Well, I don’t know. We might be able to.”

This was almost too good to be true. “Lydia, we’d love it. It might not be until summer—the girls would be out of school.” They were silent for a moment. “Will you tell Marcus?”

Lydia’s smile was humorless. “Yes, I’ll tell him.” For several years before she moved to England, Pru and Lydia’s brother, Marcus, had been involved. It hadn’t ended well.

“And how
is
Celia?” Pru asked.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “Celia is out of the picture,” she said. “Now it’s Krystal—that’s Krystal with a K.”

Pru and Lydia didn’t bring up Marcus’s name all that often, even when Pru asked about mutual friends at the Dallas Arboretum, where she had worked with both Marcus and Ray. “Oh. How did that happen?”

“How do you think it happened? I love my brother, but he can be a real jackass.” Lydia shook her head. “It was last summer. Ray told me that Marcus and Celia were eating at Tegmeyer’s Steak House when Krystal showed up to announce that she and Marcus were together now and if he didn’t have the nerve to say it, she would. Apparently, Celia made quite a scene.”

“Mmm,” Pru said. “At least I just left town.”

Christopher had one hand on the knob of the flat’s front door and one resting lightly at the base of Pru’s neck. They both took a last look across the cozy sitting room to the windows that looked out to sea. “I’m sorry to leave here,” he said.

She nodded. “It was my favorite of all the places we’ve been.”

He closed the door and they walked down the two flights of stairs, carrying the last few sacks and bags. As they loaded them into the boot of his car, Pru said, “But you’ll be happy to get back to work.”

“I’m happy about parts of it,” he said.

“I know Edinburgh will be lovely, but it is far away.” Apprehension about the new post and her lack of knowledge about the subject had siphoned off some of her enthusiasm.

“You’ll be busy—with the work and the wedding.”

At the mention of marriage, that warm honey began its ooze. “Yes.” She smiled. “Three months sorting out Mr. Menzies’s papers, Jo helping with plans, and then we’ll be married. It’ll be a piece of cake.”