The Bluebonnet Betrayal (19 page)

Roddy shook that off, and when French's phone buzzed, they both left.

Pru stood at the bar as the door closed.

“Anything else?” the woman behind the bar asked.

Pru checked her watch—four o'clock. She looked back at the table with two unopened packets of crisps. “I'll have a glass of red wine. Make it a large one.”

She had just settled again at the table and raised the glass to her lips when French walked back in. He stopped short of the table, as if unsure of his reception.

“Hello again,” she said. “Did you forget something?”

“I thought I might have another word with you.” His hesitation surprised Pru.

“Of course—please join me.” She tried to sound welcoming, although at that moment she would so much rather be left alone to sort through the day, put things in their proper places, see what—or who—stood out.

“Yes, thanks,” French said. “I'll just…” He nodded to the bar and came back a couple of minutes later with a pint of Bombardier.

Things, Pru thought, were getting interesting.

“We will be planting up the public containers along North Congress Avenue this weekend. Please keep track of your whereabouts and report in hourly.”

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

French took a long drink of his beer, set the glass down, and sighed.

Pru glanced toward the door of the pub. “Are you waiting for Sergeant Chalk?”

“I've put Chalk on another case for the time being—we're a bit stretched at the moment.” He glanced up, as if waiting for her to point out the obvious, that help was near at hand if only he would ask. She held her tongue. “Ms. Parke, did you ask Mr. MacWeeks about wearing his sweatshirt because you think it was him you saw the evening Ms. Woodford was killed?”

“I saw someone in the bluebonnet color, but I can't say it was Roddy. The thing is, he wasn't at the garden at all that day, and yet just now, he agreed with me that he had been there. Seems like it's a day that everyone would remember—where they were, what they were doing. It's odd.”

They sat silent for a time, until French asked, “I hope I'm not disturbing you—are you expecting someone?”

“No, it's just that this is a pleasant and dark little pub—just the place to sit and think.” And dare to ask a few questions of her own. “Inspector French, what evidence do you have? Anything from the scene—fingerprints or witnesses or an odd comment from someone?”

French took another long pull on his pint and then, instead of telling her to keep her nose out of it, he shook his head. “Everyone involved in the garden was elsewhere that evening. And no one has a bad word to say about Ms. Woodford.”

“No one?” Pru had heard a few. “You know about Twyla and Roddy—all those years ago?”

“Yes, we do. And Mr. Chiverton. And, of course, her marriage to Mr. Woodford. All those concerned offered their alibis freely. Mr. Chiverton is uncertain from which Tube station he returned—he bought a ticket with cash and has no record. His partner, Ms. Bright, cannot remember in which café she stopped for coffee. Their son was in his own room. He cannot confirm either parent's return time.”

Pru kept her face neutral—at least she hoped she did. Here was French handing over each suspect's details. She needed to absorb it all, in order to relay the information to Christopher, but her mind got caught on a snag—
Chiv
. He did remember which Tube station, because he had told Pru only that day. It was Turnham Green, her own stop—although that fact had whizzed past her at the time. Why had he been vague with French?

But hadn't Pru been vague herself—with mentioning where she lived? At some point during buildup, she must've mentioned aloud which stop on the District Line was hers—not only to Chiv and Iris, but the others, too. Her mind flew back to the flash of bluebonnet she'd seen while with Boris on the Common. She'd been quick to finger Iris for that, but now she realized any one of them could've staked out the entrance to the Turnham Green Underground station. Her heart sank.

French continued going down the list of suspects. “Mr. Woodford at an evening conference in the city—the company quickly sent us the film from that event. Mr. Thomas Forde returning from Newcastle, ticket provided, also paid for in cash. I've put someone on the CCTV at King's Cross station to locate him.” A massive, busy station—there's an assignment Pru wouldn't want. “The women from Austin at the theater together. Mr. MacWeeks, at his opening.”

So they all say. But if everyone else's alibi was as shaky as Chiv's and Iris's, then what did that tell them about suspects? That the list was still long.

“Ms. Finkel was not at the theater,” French added, “but Mr. Woolverton provided her alibi.”

“Mr. Woolverton?” Pru pictured some tweedy old fellow with a pipe.

“Melursh Woolverton—the Australian gardener.”

Pru's burst of laughter caught the attention of the rest of the people in the pub, who smiled at her and went back to their business. Her laughter fell off into a giggle before she could say, “Melursh Woolverton—won't Sweetie love that?”

A faint smile crossed French's face but then vanished.

Pru leaned back into the corner of the settle and put a leg up on the bench. She studied French as he studied his glass.

“You're being quite free with your information after telling me to mind my own business,” Pru remarked.

A momentary glint appeared in his eyes. “That isn't exactly how I put it. And regardless, it's nothing you don't already know, I'm certain of that.”

She sat straight up. “Are you saying I'm meddling in your case?”

“I am aware of the fact that all these people talk to you. They look to you for advice and help. Why is that?”

“Oh.” She relaxed again against the back of the settle. “I don't know. It's probably because I was their liaison before Twyla arrived—a sort of bridge between Texas and England, because I know both worlds. Twyla was to take over when she got here, and I was going to be just one of the crew, but…now I'm the one left and so they continue to think I've got some sort of power. It's silly, I know.”

French moved his glass off the beer mat and back on. “Is Mr. Pearse still in London?”

Pru took a slow sip of her wine in order to consider this question. He had asked it in an offhanded way, as if only being polite, but that didn't fool her—she could see the strain and tension in his face. And the fatigue. She didn't think French had seen Christopher/Kit on-site that morning, and so she believed she knew what he needed—to lean on Christopher's experience and keen eye for clues and his subtle ways with suspects that got more out of them than they realized. French continued to shift his glass round without looking at her. Pru shouldn't let him squirm—the question had taken a lot out of him, she could tell. But then she thought back to the morning of finding Twyla's body, and how officious and cool he had been, warning both her and Christopher to keep away from his case. Well, perhaps French could squirm a bit.

“Yes, he is,” she said. “Well, not at the moment—he's away tonight, but he'll be back tomorrow. Why do you ask?” It was a polite question, asked with as much innocence as she could muster.

French shrugged. “No reason, really. Only, I thought we hadn't had a chance for a talk yet, and if he wasn't busy, we might…” He frowned into his beer.

Poor sausage, exhausted and worried. All right, enough squirming.

“I'm sure he'd love to chat with you. Shall I ask him to give you a ring tomorrow?”

“Thank you, yes. If he has the time—it's really nothing urgent.”

This would be tricky—here's French about to ask for Christopher's help, and Christopher working undercover, under no one's direction but his own in order to keep his wife safe and sane. He would need to be careful during this chat.

French finished his pint, but before he left, he said, “You did not witness this attack on Mr. MacWeeks, did you?”

“No, I heard it.”

“But you heard no voices. You thought you saw this flash of blue retreating—but that could've been influenced by the first time you saw it, the evening you met Ms. Woodford. And wouldn't you say Mr. MacWeeks came away lucky from this attack? Broken glasses, a bump on his cheek. I saw no marks on his throat from where he was choked.”

“Are you saying you think Roddy is making this up?”

“I'm asking you, Ms. Parke—do you think him capable of it, in order to divert our attention?”

“Look for Rosette Taylor's fascinating account of the life of the sweat bee in next month's issue, and learn about the hard work and solitary life of one of our native insects.”

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

Pru was allowed to finish her wine alone—along with both packets of crisps—but not in peace. French had not expected an answer to his last question, saying that it was only an idea. An idea that he wanted her to pass along to Christopher, she decided, so that both men could mull it over before comparing conclusions.

The police knew no more—probably less—than she and Christopher did. And yet she had no inclination to discuss her ideas with French—those ideas she would save for Christopher. In the meantime, she would have to double her efforts, talk to each of the Austin women about Twyla, even speak to Iris. Something, somewhere, was terribly wrong.

Sunshine flooded the mews when she walked out of the pub. Still a bit of pale daylight until almost nine-thirty in the evening, midspring. Good thing, too—she had another appointment before this day was finished. She walked to the Lamont Road house, lifted the knocker, and let it drop. Rosette answered as if she'd been hovering behind the door.

“Good afternoon,” Pru said.

“Hi,” Rosette said, opening the door wide and looking resigned to her fate. “Come on in.”

Pru followed her through the sitting room, where an unopened bottle of wine and a line of glasses straight as soldiers sat on the coffee table. Rosette didn't stop until she reached the far side of the kitchen, where she squeezed herself into the corner between the cookstove and the sink and crossed her arms. “Do you want tea?”

“Rosette, I hope you don't feel as if I'm prying into your private life. It's only, why didn't you want me to know you and Twyla were sisters?” Rosette's eyebrows jumped, and so Pru corrected herself. “
Half.
But still, her sister.”

“Her crazy sister,” Rosette said. “That's what she told you, isn't it?”

“I don't understand why this had to be a big secret—or at least a secret from me. Everyone else knows, don't they?” Pru had had no siblings until she discovered Simon only two years before and she treasured him, although they could drive each other crazy at times. Still, she wouldn't hide him—they'd had enough of that.

“The moment I met you I knew you two would bond—you should've been her sister, not me.” Before Pru could protest, Rosette waved her hand. “No, that isn't right. We loved each other”—she took a deep, ragged breath—“it just took a long time to get there.” She reached over and switched on the electric kettle.
Good,
Pru thought—
tea. That means I'll hear it all. Surely Rosette knows the rules
.

“My father left my mother and me when I was eleven,” Rosette said. “Turns out he had another family with another daughter waiting for him in Blanco, not much more than an hour away from where we lived in Austin. The first time I saw Twyla she was four—it was when my father was moving his things out of our house. He came back for another carload and had this little girl with him. ‘Here's your sister, Rosette. Say hello, Twyla.' As if it was the most normal thing in the world. I didn't see her again for fifteen years.”

The kettle boiled and switched itself off, but Rosette didn't move and so Pru poured up the tea and put the pot on the table along with mugs and milk. She expected Rosette to rearrange the items to suit her, but Rosette, it seemed, was lost in thought, traveling back into her past.

“Did you ever see your dad again?” Pru asked gently.

“Oh yes. I took classes from him at UT—hard to avoid it as he was head of the botany department. My mother died before I finished my master's degree and he offered to help me clear out the house, but what did I need of his help then? I was teaching at the junior college by the time Twyla was in college. We would run into each other every once in a while after her mother died, and she would always say those things you expect someone to say—she wanted to get together, let's talk, we're family. But we weren't—my father had chosen his family and it didn't include me. Until there was no one else left, of course.”

Pru poured the tea, put milk in the mugs, and pushed one toward Rosette, who wrapped her hands round it as if drawing up its warmth.

“Twyla started teaching high school, but after about ten years said she needed a break. She wanted to travel the world, but she came to England first, and once she got here, she never wanted to leave, said she planned on staying. After a couple of years, our father became very ill and he could no longer live alone. All he had was me, so I moved him into my house and took care of him.” Rosette swallowed. “It wasn't the ideal match. He was so messy—he'd set glasses of water down everywhere, leave doors ajar, and drop tissues on the floor—he couldn't even be bothered to throw them in the wastebasket. I couldn't keep up. I couldn't…” She shuddered. “Twyla and Damien had to come back. To help. Our father died about six months later.

“It was a while before I could go back to work. It was a while before I understood that it wasn't my fault my father had left my mother and me. And it wasn't Twyla's fault, either. Since then, we've been close. You know, more like sisters.” Rosette gulped down half her tea and set the mug on the table. “And there you have it—portrait of a perfect family.”

“No family is perfect. Someday I'll tell you about mine.”

“Do you think I killed her? Is that why you won't leave me alone? Am I a suspect?”

“Everyone's a suspect,” Pru said, not happy about it. “That's what the police think. I never thought you did it, it's just that I couldn't figure out why you could be so protective of Twyla and annoyed with her at the same time. And then the other night I rang my brother and as usual we disagreed and made up and disagreed again—and that's when it dawned on me.”

“If I didn't do it, then who?”

Pru shrugged. They sat in silence as Pru's eyes wandered over the kitchen with its modern fittings and out into the sitting room filled with comfy chairs and with lovely art prints on the wall.

“It was good of Damien to do this for you,” she said, almost to herself. “The house for the month, paying for the garden. All for Twyla—and you, too.” She recalled the brief conversation she'd had with Damien that afternoon. “He doesn't sound sold on Forde, though.”

“I'm not sold on Forde, I can tell you. All this talk of his proprietary process and how much money he's going to make.” The bitter Rosette, who had disappeared by the end of the story of her family history, returned. “The Texas DOT buys thirty thousand pounds of wildflower seed a year—and the society helps sow them. When I mentioned that to Forde, all he said was, ‘Well, wouldn't that add a copper or two to the coffers.' ” She wrinkled her nose. “He was talking about money, wasn't he?”

Pru nodded. “A copper is an old name for a two-pence—tuppence—but can mean money in general.”

“Made it sound as if he wanted to corner the market,” Rosette complained.

“I know how annoying it is when you can't get someone to see the value in what you love—and what's important. Twyla did this garden for you, didn't she?”

Rosette blinked, but not fast enough to keep back a tear that ran down her cheek. She drew a folded hanky out of her pocket, dabbed at her face, shook out the handkerchief, and refolded it.

“I won't let that designer screw this up,” Rosette said. “It's Twyla's legacy now.”

Although Pru could not see Rosette strangling her own sister, she could quite envision her throttling Roddy. Had Rosette enough time to hurry back to the grounds and attack Roddy before Pru arrived? That is, if he had been attacked.

“I wonder what was bothering her,” Pru said to herself.

Rosette shook her head. “Before we left Austin, I knew something was wrong. ‘I'll tell you about it when I see you,' she said. ‘I'll show you—I'll bring proof.' ”

“Proof?” Pru echoed.

“I looked for it in her suitcase,” Rosette said, nodding to the ceiling. “I thought she might have papers or her computer or a flash drive. Nothing.”

Pru recalled seeing the police carry out the suitcase. It had been the only indication that Twyla had been to the house. “You looked through her suitcase before the police took it away with them? How did you manage that?”

“They brought us back here that day to get our passports, and when we went upstairs they stayed down here. I didn't think they'd found a suitcase at the garden, but she had to have left it somewhere. If the person who murdered her took it, the police would need to know.” Rosette shrugged. “I peeked in the little room that was supposed to be hers, and there it was. I didn't even think, I just started going through it—I hoped maybe there would be something that would jump out at me. ‘Here!' I could say. ‘This is why she was killed.' But there wasn't anything. So I put everything back the way it was.” Rosette smiled, her eyes shining. “No, better. I straightened it up—she never folded her clothes properly. And then I told the police it was there.”

“Well done,” Pru said, marveling at Rosette's sneaky ways. “But if the proof wasn't there, where is it? And what is it?”

“I'm—”

Their conversation broke off when they heard the front door close. Ivory called out, and Rosette said, “In the kitchen.”

Ivory entered, panting slightly and her hands full of shopping bags, which she deposited in a chair. “I have found the most beautiful and expensive scarves in the world.” She held up a bag emblazoned with
LIBERTY LONDON
. “My husband will be thrilled, I'm sure. But I also found this place called Lillywhites and got all the men their soccer jerseys—or, excuse me, ‘football.' ” She wiggled her fingers in air quotes. Ivory took in the kitchen scene and asked, “So, how are you two doing?”

“We're good,” Pru replied, smiling. “Where are the girls?”

“They've latched on to one of the old guys working on Prince Harry's garden, and they've taken him out for a drink.” Ivory frowned. “It was all right, wasn't it, that we left? Chiv said to go on, that he and Iris were leaving soon.”

Had Chiv sent everyone away so that he could attack Roddy? Pru could quite see that happening, too. “Sure, nothing going on back there now.”

“Pru, why don't you stay to dinner?” Ivory asked. “Damien's coming over—has your husband made it up here yet? We sure would love to meet him.”

Pru looked away from Ivory's big, deep brown eyes as she felt her face go hot. “Oh, he's started working on a special case”—
true, this one, with me
—“it's fraud”—
yeah, I'm being a fraud right now—
“but I'm keeping him up on everything that's happening here”—
true, except for today's information, which I've yet to off-load
. Pru's head began to spin. How could she track what she'd said to Ivory, and what she'd kept quiet? “Thanks, but I think I'll be on my way. I've been helping out a neighbor, walking her dog.”
True—whew.

Ivory accompanied her to the door.

“Did Sweetie clear all that other business up with the police?”

“They didn't even ask her about that other business,” Pru said. “Twyla didn't press charges, maybe it didn't stay on the books.”

“So she told you about it?”

Pru nodded. “They just wanted to go over her statement again, where she was and when. That she was with Skippy all night—of course, you knew she hadn't gone to the theater.”

It was the way Ivory didn't move and didn't look at Pru, only shifted her gaze slightly and said, “Yeah,” that put Pru on high alert.

“Right? You knew she wasn't there because all the rest of you were.”

“I guess.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Ivory pulled the door to behind her before she answered. “Our seats weren't together, so we all got there at the same time, but we didn't really see each other the rest of the night.”

“What?”

“It's a really popular play, even though it's been running forever. Damien said he could only get single seats, so we were scattered around—there are two balconies and then the ground floor. We decided we'd meet back at the Tube station afterward, but the girls said they might stop at a pub, and I could see Sweetie wasn't going to hang around—not the way she was dressed. Rosette and I decided that if we didn't catch up—those stations are so crowded—we'd see each other back here. I just figured Sweetie came in later—I didn't know she'd stayed the whole night with Skippy.”

“You didn't tell the police this?” Pru saw the women scattering to the four winds that evening. Any one of them could've left early and the others wouldn't have known. “Didn't you talk about this among yourselves?”

“We didn't need to.” Ivory folded her arms over her ample chest. “We didn't think one of us was guilty. And so it didn't seem important.”

“No—that isn't true,” Pru said, wagging a finger at Ivory. “People only say that when they know very well it's important but they believe there's something to hide. If none of you told the police that you didn't see each other until late that evening, it means that all of you think that any one of you is capable of…doing that. You're covering for each other.”

“Are you saying you think one of us killed Twyla?” Ivory's face flushed.

“No, I'm not saying that I think that. I am saying that you all think one of you is capable. Why else would you hide this?” Ivory didn't speak, but she did shrug one shoulder. Pru hoped it meant she had made her point, but it couldn't hurt to give another nudge. She put her hand on Ivory's arm. “Come clean to the police.”