The Bluebonnet Betrayal (22 page)

“Members are reminded that ALL newsletter articles are due to the editor no later than the fifteenth of every month. NO EXCEPTIONS. Proper botanical nomenclature will be followed. Style sheets are available from Twyla.”

Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

On her phone on the Tube, Pru checked the hours of Print-4-U and found they were open until seven o'clock. Excellent—she made straight for the flat. They should talk about the case, Pru thought. She would relay to Christopher the details of all her interviews. They would dissect them, analyze every word, pick apart alibis.

Christopher stood leaning against the kitchen counter with a mug of tea in hand. “You took your time,” he said, that ghost of a smile about his lips.

All thoughts of conversation flew out of her head. She dropped her bag and came up to him, her lips grazing his as she murmured, “Anticipation adds pleasure.”

Setting his mug down, he cupped her face in his hands, put his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “It's no pleasure being without you.”

His thumbs stroked her cheeks as he kissed her. She worked on the buttons of his shirt.

They made their way to the bedroom, Christopher abandoning his mug of tea in the kitchen and Pru abandoning her shoes and socks. And trousers.

It was all Pru could do to pull herself away from him and get out of bed. Christopher, too, seemed reluctant to end their respite—he sat up and took her hand, toying with her fingers. The sun, hitting the frosted glass of the bathroom window, created a bright but diffused glow that spilled into the bedroom. Daylight though it still was, she could have easily fallen asleep in Christopher's arms and not awakened until the following morning.

While in the shower, she called out what she had learned from her makeshift interviews. When she stepped out, dripping, Christopher handed her a towel and gave her an appreciative nod.

“There now—you've just separated them into two camps. I'd say that's a fine piece of police work for a morning.”

“How did I do that?” she asked, both pleased and perplexed.

“It was the way each one reacted to you. What did they say?” Christopher asked as he stepped into the shower.

Pru dried off and wrapped the towel around her as she thought about what he asked. “Some of them wanted to help—Ivory, KayAnn and Nell, Sweetie, Rosette—and Chiv,” she said. “ ‘What can I do?' they asked me. But Roddy, Iris, and Forde all wanted to know why I didn't just leave it to the police.” She saw it now. “Is that our suspect list?”

“It does happen that someone who's committed a crime tries to appear helpful in order to throw off the investigation, but it doesn't happen that often and I can't see any of these people able to carry it off.”

Suspects with dubious—or unknown—motives. “It was because of Twyla that Forde got this gig,” Pru mused. “He'd be shooting himself in the foot to jeopardize that. Roddy, too—the Chelsea Flower Show means a great deal to his reputation. It's only Iris that doesn't give a fig about it.”

Pru remained standing in the bathroom as she thought about those left on the suspect list. “Damien,” she added as Christopher emerged from the shower and reached for his towel. “I haven't spoken to him again—yet. He may have a firm alibi for that evening, but perhaps he saw her earlier in the day. Or if he isn't a suspect, perhaps Twyla told him something that would help find her murderer and he doesn't realize it.” She sighed, and Christopher put his finger under her chin.

“Shouldn't you be a bit more happy you've narrowed the field?”

“Iris has never trusted that Chiv would stay with her,” Pru said, “and yet he has—except now he was about to end it with her. I'm afraid she might've known that. And she probably knows that Chiv's been in love with Twyla all these years. It's just so sad. And then I think of us.”

“And that makes you sad?” Christopher asked.

“No, it makes me so very grateful.” She kissed him.

“How about a sandwich before I leave?” Christopher asked. “I'll nip down to Fritz & Floyd, shall I?”

“There was a tiny incident this morning,” Pru said, holding up her thumb and forefinger pinched together to show how truly inconsequential was the matter she was about to tell him. She'd waited until they finished their baguettes and sat at the kitchen table with mugs of tea, hoping to frame it as a passing event, nothing of importance.

Christopher set his mug on the table and waited.

Quickly and lightly she recounted the brief moment when Iris, driving the forklift that carried a pallet of stones, didn't see her.

“I walked out of the shed; she didn't know I was there. That's all. She apologized—really she was mortified that it had happened. And I wasn't hurt. No harm, no foul.”

Christopher stared at her, intense brown eyes unblinking.

“What about French?” Pru asked, steering them off in a different direction.

After a moment, Christopher shook his head slightly. “I rang. He was about to go into a briefing on another case, but I couldn't wait any longer for him to ask me to help—I told him what you'd found out.”

“And he told you to tell me to keep my nose out of it?”

“I believe he knows that ship has sailed. Although he did ask that—”

“I keep well away?”

Christopher smiled. “French will go back to each person, asking them to account for their whereabouts again, comparing it with the first version they gave.”

“Yes, he's done that with Sweetie already,” Pru said. “He'll get an earful with Forde, that's for sure. He wouldn't shut up about his movements—I heard every tiny detail.”

“And MacWeeks with his story of going to the hospital grounds, but not in. Iris and Chiv, vague about their movements.”

Christopher grew quiet and he stared off into the middle distance, a sure sign to Pru that as he put the pieces in place for all these suspects, something had caught his attention. But what?

They stood on Turnham Green Terrace, ready to go their separate ways—Christopher, right to the Underground station, and Pru, left toward Chiswick High Road and Print-4-U. He checked his watch, and she glanced over as well. Only gone six o'clock.

“Hang on,” Pru said, and dashed into Fritz & Floyd, returning with a Portuguese custard tart and a handful of cash.

“Are they paying you to take their food away?” Christopher asked.

He was about to leave; would it really do any good to tell him about the ARGS sweatshirt seen just the day before and on this very spot? “I overpaid yesterday, and the guys remembered. Now here,” she said, tucking the paper bag in his jacket pocket, “don't squash it—although I'm sure it would taste just as good. This could be the conclusion of your decent food for the day—you and Teddy and his friend will probably end up stopping at a roadside service. Little Chef or some such.”

“Thank you,” he said and pulled her close. “Now, seeing as there's nothing left for you to do this afternoon apart from seeing about the leaflets, why don't you come back to the flat after and have a quiet evening in? I'll give you a ring from my B&B tonight.”

He had to have known what a hopeless attempt that was. “I want to go back to the garden,” she told him. “There's still time. We should be able to place all the shrubs, at least. Did you notice that pile of compost that had been delivered? Once the shrubs are placed, we'll fill in round them and cover the rootball, so that they look as if they're planted. Plus, I need to find out what Chiv's done about that fruit machine Roddy wanted—it's supposed to be an antique petrol pump. Do you know anything about the flowers—what you'll be bringing back? Roddy thinks Chiv's followed his orders and the lorries will be loaded with
Nigella,
but, I don't know, I think Chiv has something up his sleeve. Although that could be wishful thinking on my part.”

It had taken only moments for Pru to shift into high gear. She felt her nerves
twang
as she realized the few days left couldn't possibly be enough time to get it all done.

“Look now,” Christopher said, “don't worry. The garden will be finished—we've got until Monday morning, don't we? Press day—that's when judging begins?”

Pru shook her head. “Sunday—we have to be finished Sunday morning, seven-thirty. The assessing judges come by that day, and the following day, Monday, the judging panel. We won't know what we've received, of course, until Tuesday morning—results are embargoed until then. Oh God,” she said, panic rising as fast as her energy level, “what if we get a Bronze? What if we don't get anything—that would be the worst. Absolutely the worst.”

Christopher picked out the one thing from her pile of worries that they could do something about. “We'll get it finished.”

Print-4-U occupied a tiny slice of shopfront real estate down the Chiswick High Road—wedged between a rare-book dealer and a pub, The George IV. Posters offering the business's services completely covered the window:
BESPOKE WEDDING INVITES, FULL COLOUR CLUB VENUE POSTERS, AND CONFERENCE PROGRAMS—FREE DELIVERY.

A bell above the door jangled when Pru entered, but she doubted if it could be heard in the rest of the place. In the back of the room, three copy machines whirred and trays clunked as they moved up and down to receive sheets of paper, while another louder machine threaded plastic bindings. Standing—or was he sitting?—just behind the counter was a man with thick glasses who looked up and smiled.

“May I help you?”

No one had to tell Pru who this small man was. Dark eyes, chipmunk cheeks, and, although shiny bald on top, a thick ring of salt-and-pepper hair—heavy on the salt—ran round the back of his head from ear to ear.

“Mr. Bright?” Pru stuck her hand out. “I'm Pru Parke. I'm working with Iris on the Chelsea Flower Show garden.”

A last-minute decision to emphasize her relationship with Iris instead of Chiv seemed to hit its mark. The small man shook her hand and said, “Ms. Parke—Iris has told me about you. Are you here about the leaflets? I've said I can deliver them, no problem, but if you'd rather collect them, they'll be ready on Saturday.”

“Yes, well, that's just the thing, you see. There's been a bit of a problem with…”

“Mr. MacWeeks provided copy for the leaflets, and Chiv has no power to stop this printing, Ms. Parke. I hope he hasn't sent you on this wild-goose chase.”

“But, Mr. Bright, Chiv's only concern is that the information in the leaflet is accurate.”

“I know what Chiv's only concern is,” Bright said, and pressed his lips together.

Pru quickly considered just how to find a way round the Bright family fortress. Leaflets cost money. Roddy may have given him the text and even the photos, but who was footing the bill?

“Everyone is working so very hard right now—including Teddy—he's such a fine young man, your nephew, and has really accomplished so much. All of us so want to get this right. It is the Chelsea Flower Show, after all. I volunteered to come out and speak to you about a brief delay only so that the information in our leaflet can be correct, but I certainly understand your reluctance to take my word for it. Why don't we ring our sponsor, Damien Woodford? I know he is just as eager as the rest of us to get this right, but perhaps it's best if he tells you that himself.”

She pulled out her phone and waited. Mr. Bright's eyebrows rose.
Jackpot
. “Oh, well,” he said, “I don't see how a delay of twenty-four hours would make any difference. It won't be more than that, will it? It's only that, an order that large takes time—trifold, in color—and to incorporate changes would mean…”

Pru smiled. “We'll have everything to you in good time, I promise. Could I have a copy of the draft you have at the moment, and I'll take it away with me and have a look this evening. Yes?”

Bright printed out a black-and-white version of the leaflet and handed it over. “You tell Iris to stop for a visit again when she has the time. We don't see each other nearly enough—yesterday was the first chance we'd had to catch up in months.”

“Of course I will, thanks so much,” Pru said, snatching the paper and stuffing it in her bag, eager to get out before Al Bright decided that yes, he would like to phone Damien Woodford. Pru felt sure Damien would approve of the delay—once she explained, which she hadn't. Yet.

Out on the pavement, she congratulated herself on such quick maneuvering. Of course, the bill for the printing would go to Damien, he whose pockets seemed bottomless. And she could see how the creation of the leaflet would have fallen into some black hole. Chiv loathed Damien—“upper-class twit,” he'd called him—and would never have gone begging either for more money or to stop the printing. And even if he had, how receptive would Damien have been? Chiv had apparently spoken with Al Bright, but that hadn't gone well. Add to the mix Roddy wreaking havoc on all plans—the animosity among those three men was amazing.

She would head back to Chelsea. She would ring Damien on the way, just to cover her bases about the leaflet—she had wanted to talk with him again, to ask if he'd seen Twyla. She would…her feet wouldn't move, as if they knew something her brain didn't and they were waiting for it to catch up. And then it hit her—a stunning blow. She pivoted on the spot and went back into Print-4-U.

“Seed Swap—The beauty of our flowers is that they make more of themselves without any effort from us. Next month, we'll conduct our annual seed exchange, so bring in your own collection CLEARLY LABELED.”

Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

The door jangled and Al Bright looked up from his computer.

“Sorry—did you say that Iris stopped to see you yesterday?” Pru asked.

“She did—we're the only two siblings left in the family. It's important to stay close.”

“And what time was that?”

“Well, it was just before I closed. We went next door to The George and had a bite of supper.” Bright puffed up his chipmunk cheeks. “Don't tell me—he was complaining, wasn't he? Saying she isn't working hard enough?”

“No, certainly not,” Pru said, wanting to defend Chiv—“he”—but knowing better than to step into a feud this old. “No one works harder than Iris. We all know that. Thanks. Bye.”

Pru left and hurried down the pavement, laughing in relief. Iris had been the hooded ARGS figure seen looking in the window of Fritz & Floyd—not stalking Pru, but in the neighborhood to visit her brother.

But Pru's steps slowed when she remembered what Al Bright had said about his sister's visit—the first in months. It might've been Iris yesterday, but not the first time—not the time Boris had growled and Pru had seen a glimpse of bluebonnets through the shrubs on the Common. So only part of the puzzle had been solved.

She got hold of Damien just before she reached the Underground station, and stepped into a quiet lane to talk.

After giving him the highlights of her visit to Print-4-U, she added, “I hope I wasn't overstepping my bounds. But I don't believe we should let Roddy have free rein—if we do, I'm afraid neither the leaflet nor the garden will be as Twyla intended.”

“I wish to God she'd never come up with the idea,” Damien said, his voice quiet, although Pru could hear the simmering rage in it. “She'd be safe. She'd be alive.”

“This was her dream—to return to England and bring a part of her other life with her.”

“There was something she wanted to talk with me about,” he said, half to himself.

Ah, there it was—her permission to ask. “Did you see her the day she arrived?”

Damien sighed. “She rang that morning not long after she landed, and came by the office. It was so good to see her. I thought…well, I didn't have the time—I had a board meeting and, like a fool, that's all I could think about, business. I said I would stop by the grounds the next day.” Silence on the line for a moment. “And so I did.”

“Twyla had a mobile,” Pru said, wanting confirmation. “Was it her phone from the States—is that what she used to call you?”

“No, she must've bought one at the airport. When she rang, it was a UK number, one I didn't recognize and without a name.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Yes, of course I did.”
At last,
Pru thought,
someone followed the rules
. “You're asking a great many questions, Ms. Parke. I didn't realize you would be quite so involved in the investigation.”

That she would be quite such a nosy parker, he meant—but he had said it in a nice way. “It's so frustrating that the police have not caught the person who murdered Twyla. I don't really know what they're up to, and I don't see how it can hurt if I ask a few questions and let them know if I discover something.”

“Have at it, I say. Do what you need to—with both the leaflet and the garden—to ensure everything is up to the proper standards. I want to see this done for Rosette. But allow me this—I don't know what sponsorship information Forde gave MacWeeks for the leaflet. I realize I shouldn't dictate what to include or delete”—
A generous statement,
Pru thought,
as you are the one paying for it
—“but I'd rather there was no mention of Forde's imaginary connection to GlobalSynergy. Leave off all sponsorship information if necessary. I'm weary of waiting for his proposal, and I'm canceling the offer to consider it as of now.”

Pru ended the call and looked at her phone. Where was Twyla's mobile? Did the police have it? Could it trace her last movements and all the people she spoke with? Pru longed to phone French and ask him, but knew she still acted on the fringe of his acceptance level—he would never consider her an active member of the investigative team. Christopher could ask him—she'd save that for their phone call later that evening.

She stuck her phone into her bag and her hand came back out with the black-and-white copy of the leaflet. She smoothed out the crumpled paper across her thigh and her gaze instantly fell on Roddy's garden title, “Blue on Blue,” triggering a stab of annoyance—it should've read “More Than Rock and Stone.” She skimmed the rest of the text, noting a paragraph on the back, labeled “Sponsorship” that promoted BlueGreen Enterprises. She caught sight of the phrase “proprietary process.” Someone would need to tell Forde the bad news.

A crowd poured out of the Underground entrance. Pru watched them walk past her, remembering she intended to go back to the garden. But not yet. First, she needed to clear her head. She needed to think, she needed to walk. She needed Boris.

“Well, how lovely—an afternoon outing,” Mrs. Miller said to Pru's proposal. “What do you think, Boris?” she called over her shoulder.

From the sitting room, Boris replied with a throaty affirmation and trotted out to stand at the coatrack, directly under where his lead hung.

“It's very good of you,” Mrs. Miller said. “I've spent the afternoon dealing with a stubborn RSPHT board member who insists that next year's budget include hiring a production company to create a television program about the English silk trade in the seventeenth century—reenacting the influx of Huguenot refugees and all. Where does he think we'll get the money for that, I ask you?”

“Perhaps he should pay for it himself,” Pru said as she snapped Boris's lead onto his collar.

“He isn't after
spending
money,” Mrs. Miller replied as she closed the door, “but rather
making
it. He owns the production company.”

In the lift on the way down, Pru said to the dog, “I must be brave, Boris. I can't let what Roddy has done scare me like this. I must confront it full-on.” She pulled out the copy of the leaflet again and this time forced herself to read through—from Roddy's “artistic vision” and “dreamlike quality of the flower's texture” to “a statement of today's culture” regarding the rusted fruit machine. By the time the lift doors glided open—in only two floors—her blood had started to boil.

As she and Boris walked out and down the road toward the Common, Pru flipped the paper over to give the sponsor's paragraph closer attention, hoping the words wouldn't read as Forde sounded—blah, blah, blah. She made it past “proprietary process” and something about bluebonnets' impact on science and business, but stumbled over the word “engineered.”

Boris pulled up at the zebra walk across the busy road and Pru stopped with him—he was as good as a guide dog, she thought. They crossed safely, and she returned to the leaflet and read the words again, this time aloud.

“…creating the patented seed of the engineered version of
Lupinus texensis
.”

The word “engineered” to a gardener was like a red flag to a bull. The word meant genetically modified, switching genes from plant to plant, animal to plant even, to accomplish sometimes quite dubious goals. High demand for winter tomatoes in the North? No problem, let's just splice a cold-tolerant fish gene into this tomato's DNA.

Boris growled. “I knew you would see it my way,” Pru said, tugging him along as he attempted to head off to their left. “No squirrels today, Boris, please. Now, what are the consequences of genetically engineering a bluebonnet? This is the question science needs to ask itself, you know—bluebonnets do not live in a vacuum, they are one part of a complex web. Do you think Damien knows about this? Perhaps not—and that's why Forde has been so slow getting all the information to him—he knew there would be objections.”

With the word “slow,” Pru's feet slowed on the path across the Common. Damien had agreed to look at Forde's proposal only because of Twyla. And he still hadn't seen it. But Twyla had seen it—Forde had said something early on about that—he'd sounded so proud about sending her his research.

Out came her phone. Pru pulled off the path, and Boris plopped down at her feet while she searched online for “Forde Thomas Forde,” “Newcastle University,” “biofuel,” “bluebonnets,” “genetics of”—various words and combinations thereof that might call up something relevant.

Pru hated typing on her phone—these were not young thumbs—plus, most results appeared useless. There were hits about Forde at uni, Forde in chemistry club, Forde's impoverished background leading to a fully funded scholarship. Finally, scrolling far down, she found a title that caught her eye, although reading the results might prove difficult—scientific papers didn't come in a mobile format, apparently. Forde had written something called “Invertase Suppression in
Lupinus texensis.
” She had no idea what that meant—plant phys class had been far too many years ago. She made a call for help.

“Hi, Rosette, it's Pru. I hope I'm not disturbing anything.”

“No, you aren't. Chiv let us all go this afternoon, I'm at the house.”

“Can you tell me what ‘invertase suppression' is?”

Rosette was silent a moment before answering. “It's a method of genetic engineering, a way to produce sterile flowers—plants without pollen. Why?”

Pru's turn to be silent. She looked down at Boris, who looked back at her.

“I think that's what Forde wants to do to the bluebonnets.”