The Bluebonnet Betrayal (23 page)

“Lost and Found—Last month's meeting netted a fine collection of left-behind items: purple-framed readers (2.5x), an almost-new copy of
Know It—Plant It!
and a pink push-up bra (32C). Please reclaim from the Secretary. No questions asked.”

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

“He what?” That was how Rosette greeted Pru at the door.

Pru had ended their phone conversation with “I'll be right over,” dropped Boris off, and hopped on the Tube, half-jogging from the station to the house. It didn't leave her much breath to explain, which didn't matter, as she didn't understand it herself.

They settled on the sofa—Rosette had her laptop open and two glasses of red wine poured. Pru brought out her phone and sent Rosette the link to what she'd found.

“This isn't the entire paper,” Rosette said, “only the abstract. It doesn't look as if it addresses the pollen issue, but shows how suppressing the invertase triggers a high production of the enzyme he needs for biofuel.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose of growing a specially designed bluebonnet for biofuel if you're creating a plant that can't reproduce itself,” Pru said. “Unless, of course, you want to be the sole source of a very valuable commodity.”

Rosette flushed. “This engineered bluebonnet would have to be planted out in mass quantities. If he thinks he's going to do that in Texas, it would mean hundreds of thousands of acres of food for pollinating insects would disappear. The bees would die. The landscape would die, too, eventually.”

“Endangered,” Pru said. Twyla's voice echoed in her mind.

“What?”

“We cannot allow this to be endangered. It was what Twyla told me when we met. I thought she said something was ‘in danger,' but I remembered it wrong. ‘Endangered'—she was talking about an entire ecosystem.”

“And there Forde would be, selling tons of his engineered bluebonnet seeds every year. Landowners would grow crops, harvest for the biofuel—and then have to buy seeds all over again each year. From him.”

“Forde is convinced GlobalSynergy will fork over a couple of million for his idea, even though Damien has yet to see it. What would he do if someone tried to stop him?”

Pru hoped she was jumping to conclusions, that Rosette would tell her to hold her horses. Instead, Rosette stared at Pru for a moment, then slapped her hands on her thighs.

“We need to find Twyla's proof. I think we should go look for it.”

The proposal caught Pru off guard. It seemed to surprise Rosette, too—she crossed her arms and looked at the floor, as if thinking better of such a crazy idea.

But she'd hooked Pru. “Really? You mean go back to the garden—search the grounds?”

Rosette nodded. “Yes. Why not? We can go right now. I want to know—don't you?”

“Yes. All right, then,” Pru said. “Let's go.”

“After all,” Rosette said, as if Pru hadn't just agreed, “I looked in her luggage, I've searched that room upstairs again—where else would she have put it? And you said Twyla told you it was safe.”

“She said she put it somewhere safe. Perhaps at the garden. Why not at the garden?”

They looked at each other as if silently counting down to liftoff, and at the same time, both shot off the sofa. Launch complete, they moved no farther, waiting for a second-stage command.

And here it came—Ivory walking down the stairs. Both Pru and Rosette picked up their glasses, slugged down the last of the wine, and grabbed their bags—Rosette took her laptop, too.

“Where are you two off to?” Ivory called as they headed to the door.

Rosette froze like a deer in the headlights, her hand on the latch. Pru took over. “To the show grounds. Checking on…you know, the garden.”

Ivory looked at her watch. “Are they still open?”

“Oh yes, sure they are.” Although they'd have to hightail it over there.

“Damien's taking us all out to dinner, Rosette.”

“I haven't forgotten,” Rosette said as she began to edge out backward. “Have a drink here first. I'll be back. Pru, would you like to go with us?”

“Thank you, but I don't want to intrude,” Pru replied, the necessary polite answer when she really would love it.

“You wouldn't be intruding at all,” Rosette said, “you're practically a member of the society. Ivory, tell Damien I asked Pru, and could he call in one more for the reservation. But if we're late, go on without us and we'll meet you there. We've got some business to take care of.”

Rosette grabbed Pru's arm and pulled her outside. Just as the door shut, they heard Ivory say, “Yes, ma'am.”

Down the pavement they went, keeping pace with each other—in a hurry, but not running. There was more supposing to do.

“Forde sent Twyla his research before she left Texas,” Pru said.

Rosette nodded. “That's must've been the reason she came late—she was probably studying it and came across the problem that would blow Forde's whole plan sky-high.”

“And while we all waited for her, he kept bragging about it to me, proud to show off to his American chemistry teacher, anticipating her praise.” Pru stopped. “He really wanted her approval, but didn't he think she would see the problem? Doesn't he care what would happen with this seed?”

Rosette shook her head. “The majority of scientists are responsible people who understand consequences and know that they have a duty to promote good in the world. They have integrity. And then there are those few—they're like little boys who blow things up for no other reason than to see the explosion. You ask them, ‘Why? Why do you want to breed a goat with two heads?' and they shrug their shoulders. ‘Because we can,' they say.”

“Forde thought his idea would make him rich,” Pru said.

“Even worse—a greedy scientist who doesn't care about repercussions.”

“So Twyla had the goods on him. But wait.” Pru held up a finger. “Even if he found her proof and got rid of it, his information is on the web for all to see.”

“No, I took a closer look. Forde's the one who posted that abstract—he can take it down. I'm surprised he hasn't done it yet, although maybe it's the one he missed.” When they held up at the Royal Hospital Road, waiting for traffic to clear, Rosette said, “I'm glad we're doing this.”

Pru noticed the flush in Rosette's cheeks and how she bounced on the balls of her feet—a bundle of energy. She nodded. “Yes, I am, too.” Be prepared—Christopher's Scout's motto. There was no point in ringing French now with nothing to show. They would find proof and be prepared to lay it all out.

“Of course, we'll have to tell the police if we find something,” Pru said, adding, “but I'd rather it not be French. I'll tell Christopher when he rings later. No, I'll send him a text right now.”

She typed a quick message—
Forde? I'll explain. Talk to you later. Love
. She hit “send,” reminding herself that it was a lead, Forde was a suspect, and that she shouldn't jump the gun
.

When she looked up, Rosette's eyebrows were raised. “Christopher?”

Oops.
When Pru rang Rosette for help, it had signaled a shift in their relationship, and now, on their way to search for they weren't sure what, it felt as if they'd bonded, become friends. It had caused Pru to forget not everyone knew everything. But she believed Rosette deserved the truth.

“Christopher is my husband.”

“Isn't he in Hampshire?”

“Mmm. No, he's driving to Hereford to pick up plants for the garden.”

“But that's—” Rosette burst out in a long, low-pitched laugh. “Oh Lord! Kit is Christopher?”

“He only did this—came onto the crew under an assumed name—to help me. I was having trouble coming to grips with everything, you see. He's not working for the Met—DCI French had no room for him on the investigating team. But because he wanted to keep an eye on me, we thought it might be easier for all of you if you didn't know he was really my husband, actually a police officer.” Pru frowned. “I'm sorry.”

Rosette waved away her concern. “Ivory thought you and Kit had something going on—and she was right.”

Pru, suspected of cheating on her husband with her husband, laughed, too. “So you don't mind?”

“Of course not. It's always nice to know you've got someone looking out for you.”

Yes, wasn't it,
Pru thought, and took a chance that Rosette's even temper would continue. “It's good of Damien to do all this.”

“It was for Twyla.”

“I suppose—but he could've pulled out of the entire thing after she was killed. Instead, he said he wanted to see it to the end—for you.”

Rosette cut her eyes at Pru. “We haven't seen each other since he left Texas—haven't even been in touch. But he was always a good brother-in-law. Very considerate. Kind.”

“Damien hasn't been your brother-in-law for years and years,” Pru said.

Rosette ignored that statement. “It's nearly eight o'clock. Will they still let us in?” she asked as they arrived at the London gate.

Pru allowed her this dodge as her phone buzzed. A text from Christopher:
Do nothing until I return
.

Right,
she replied.
Only going to collect proof.

“You don't have much time left,” the guard said, looking closely at their work passes. “Are you having a crew meeting or something?”

“No, only a…review of our progress,” Pru said.

She and Rosette picked up the pace as they walked down Eastern Avenue—the guard was right, work hours were nearing an end—as evidenced by the few people about, mostly heading for the exit. The grounds looked as if the show could open any minute—apart from a few pieces of heavy equipment left on-site. The Aussies had yet to move their crane—it sat huddled on the roadway next to the tall grasses in “Welcome to Oz,” the extended arm with bucket folded down upon itself as a heron draws its head into its shoulders.

“Why did he think the two of us would have a crew meeting?” Rosette asked.

Pru shrugged. Their crew might be small, but not this small.

As they neared the ARGS garden, a feeling of dread, like an undertow, pulled at Pru, drawing her into despair despite the initial excitement of their mission. The sun hung low in the sky—perhaps it was the dropping light that took away the few qualities that made it a garden—or almost one—and left it only as a place of death. She imagined Twyla confronting Forde that evening— about his idea to create and market an engineered seed that would endanger so much. Twyla had taken a stand against it. And how had Forde reacted? He'd grabbed her by the throat.

They stood across the road from the Rock Garden Bank, to take in the quiet scene. Rosette thought Twyla had physical proof. What was it? Did Twyla have time to hide it away? And if so, where would she have put it?

“Proof, proof,” Pru chanted under her breath, breaking through her gloom. “In the shed?”

“A good place to start,” Rosette agreed, and they got at it.

Despite the piles of leftovers that had accumulated so quickly, there remained plenty of room in the shed for the two of them to move about. They kept the door open to let in the waning light as they started in. Pru shook out every single work glove she could find. She even located a spare pair of steel-toed boots and felt round in the toes, hoping to find more than a spider.

Rosette examined all the waterproofs, and then hung them neatly on the pegs—even the ones that had been in a heap on the floor to begin with. They searched nursery pots, tools, crevices between boards—and found nothing.

“I don't know.” Pru frowned. “Twyla said it was safe, but maybe he found it after all. There was nothing else on-site that early, just this shed. Not even the wall.” Pru took such a sharp breath it hurt. “The wall!”

Chiv wouldn't let anyone near the tail end of the wall—he had told Pru he'd caught Twyla building it. The last thing she'd touched, and he was so proud that she had remembered what he'd taught her. And the best-built dry stone walls might house all sorts of surprises—lockets, diaries, proof of underhanded doings that would ruin the ecological landscape of an earthly treasure. Chiv might've preserved evidence without even realizing it.

Pru pulled Rosette out the door of the shed and to the end of the serpentine wall. It was fine construction, too bad they had to dismantle it, but Pru's strong sense of being right overcame the need to make a shrine of Twyla's last work.

“Careful,” Rosette said. “Let's not make too much of a mess—we don't want to miss something.”

“We don't want to rile Chiv if we can help it.”

They removed a three-foot length of top stones, keeping them in the same order, and began on the second layer and then a third.

“She knew just the way to settle each one, didn't she?” Pru asked.

Rosette took hold of a long, heavy stone, picking it up with both hands and leveraging it against her hips to lower it to the ground. And there it was—not a gold locket, not a girl's diary, but something just as precious. Nestled into a small hollow on top of a stone and wrapped in plastic—a flash drive.

“Although
Lupinus texensis
is only one of several species of lupines that are native to Texas, it is the bluebonnet of our hearts.”

The President Speaks, from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society

At first, neither moved. “Do you think it's all right if we touch it?” Rosette asked. “What about fingerprints?”

“Only Twyla's—if Forde had found this, he wouldn't've left it here.”

Pru reached for it, but flinched as a raucous squawking erupted from the plane trees—the parakeets, getting ready to roost for the night. She scanned the green canopy and shrubs below, half afraid she'd see a flash of blue. Rosette smiled, but a cold sweat broke out on Pru's arm as she took and pulled open the plastic bag.

“Look, we should probably tell the police now,” Pru said.

“You've already told Christopher,” Rosette pointed out. “It isn't as if we're stealing it—but I'm going to take a look before anybody else gets his hands on it.” She snatched the flash drive and went back in the shed.

Pru followed and watched as Rosette retrieved her laptop, inserted the drive, and opened it. A long list of files appeared on the screen.

“It looks like she's kept all their email correspondence—and here are his papers and proposals, I think.”

They dropped their bags in a corner and settled on the floor of the shed. Pru pulled the door closed. She'd glanced at the time—the grounds must be closing soon, and she wanted to avoid any security detail sweeping through to make sure everyone had vacated. She and Rosette would vacate, of course they would—but the temptation to see what evidence they had and get answers to their many questions was too much for either of them to resist.

The computer screen offered the only light they needed. Rosette scanned Forde's research and gave Pru an annotated version as she went—it appeared sound, she said, but dangerous, and she pointed out he hadn't actually carried through on the gene splicing, it was only theory. They read the business proposal from Forde's company, BlueGreen Enterprises—the proposal Damien had yet to see; invertase suppression was mentioned, but not its consequences. Rosette noted that the engineered bluebonnets would not be any “penny-a-pack” seeds, but quite pricey.

They looked through the email exchange. It started so well—Twyla, happy to help a former student, and Forde, proud that his teacher would consider him worthy of even a mention to Damien Woodford, whose family owned such a prominent, international company. Plans for the Chelsea garden, a recommendation to GlobalSynergy. After that, once Twyla had seen his research premise, she had started to ask questions about the process and its effect on the landscape. And Forde had begun to sidestep the issue.

“Look,” Rosette said. It was an email from Twyla dated the day before she died.

Dear Forde,

You have a great capacity for science—I knew that the first day you sat down in my chemistry class. It was a delight to teach you. And to watch as you progressed by leaps and bounds in your knowledge. But what I didn't teach you—and I fault myself for this—is the responsibility that comes with great ability. We should never do something just because we can or only for gain if it in any way harms others—there must be some accounting. You say that your process will result in higher biofuel production; that's an admirable goal. But you have not weighed this goal against the inevitable effects. And you have assumed too much if you think that you will get rich by selling the rights to a process if that process would destroy an ecosystem. I want you to think of the ramifications of starving entire populations of pollinating insects. Without those pollinators, other native flora would not set fruit and seed. This would affect the populations of birds and other animals. It would cause a further decline in native trees and shrubs, which would in turn put an entire watershed at risk. This is what you need to think about—the degradation of a vast landscape. The goal is not to leave BlueGreen and GlobalSynergy the sole source of the patented seed and so make billions—the goal is to maintain a livable earth.

I arrive in England tomorrow. We'll meet and talk—until then, I won't mention this to Damien or anyone else. But you must 'fess up. If you don't tell Damien, I will. It's your decision.

Best regards,

Twyla

“She was always too trusting.” Rosette's voice was choked with tears. “She would never have seen him for the little money-grubbing murderer he is.”

Pru put an arm around Rosette while wiping her own tears away with the back of a hand. “But it was just her way, wasn't it—to think the best of everyone?”

“Damien would never have agreed to buy that company,” Rosette said, blowing her nose on her hanky.

“Of course he wouldn't've!”

“She kept this copy of Forde's work and their correspondence for insurance. If he'd agreed to back off, she never would've told what he wanted to do. He will pay for what he's done.”

Pru nodded but took the unwelcome role of the voice of reason. “Remember, Rosette,” she said quietly, “I know this looks really bad, but we still don't know for sure that it was Forde who killed Twyla.”

Rosette's eyes burned with a fervor. “I know.”

So do I—I feel it.
“All right, look—let's go back to the house and I'll phone Christopher. No need for that deception any longer. And I'll call French, too.” Rosette closed her laptop, and they were in the dark. “How long have we been in here? I hadn't realized the time. I'll go find one of the security guys—they'll have to unlock the gates for us. With my luck, Arthur Nottle will be lurking about and give me a talking-to for being on-site after hours. Do you want to come along?”

“No, I'll wait here—you come back and get me.” Rosette opened her laptop again to Twyla's last letter.

“She learned all that from you, Rosette. The importance of the hill country.”

“Didn't she do a good job explaining it? Why didn't he listen?”

Twilight when Pru walked out of the shed—they must've been reading through Twyla's proof for nearly two hours. A breeze touched her face as she lifted it to the sky—it was the gloaming, that time when the sun had gone down but before the sky was completely dark. The glow from Rosette's computer screen escaped from the shed, and so Pru pushed the door closed and took a deep breath of the evening air—and sneezed. The plane trees, still at work.

They had done it—found him out. Twyla could rest now, be at peace. It was how Pru felt, peaceful. In the light of a city that's never completely dark, she walked over to the Bull Ring gate—the press caravan looked closed up and no one stood to attention at the locked wrought-iron entrance. This wasn't Buckingham Palace, after all. Pru walked farther down the roadway—security lights were set at corners, but much of the grounds were dimming quickly as twilight approached. There must be security people, but she saw no one and thought perhaps they were on the far side of where she wanted them. She retraced her steps but stopped at the Great Pavilion, its ghostly white form looming out of the darkness, eerie and beautiful like a giant alien that had landed lightly on earth. Had move-in started for the nurseries? She walked to the great wide entry and gazed into the darkness—she could sniff out the green growth and thought she caught a scent of tea roses.

Pru smiled at their predicament. Fancy getting locked in at the Chelsea Flower Show—it would be a gardener's dream.
And it's a lovely time of day to be here,
Pru thought—the show administration should consider offering late-evening tours. They could hold candlelight dinners and dancing down in Ranelagh Gardens near the bandstand. What a lovely—

The sound of a wooden door slamming in the distance brought her back to the moment. No dreaming now, she needed to find a security patrol or they would have to call someone. Did she have Arthur Nottle's number in her phone? Ha—wouldn't he love getting that call? She would stop off and collect Rosette and they'd go back up to the London gate. Surely someone would be there to let them out.

She circled round to the back of the shed—no light escaped from under the door.

“Rosette?” Pru called as she pulled it open. Dark within.

No Rosette. Perhaps she had misunderstood—she thought she was to meet Pru at the London gate. Yes, that must be it. Pru took a step in to retrieve her bag and in doing so, kicked some small object across the floor. She dropped to her knees and felt round, coming up with one of her spare hair clips. Her hand made a wider sweep; other small objects went skittering. She laid her hand on something soft—leather. Her little purse; she could feel the coins inside. Only then did it occur to her that the contents of her vast canvas bag were strewn across the floor. “Rosette?” she called louder, her voice in her throat.

A cry came from outside. Pru flew out of the shed and stopped, hand on the door, and strained to hear. A fox? London foxes screeched like a person being torn limb from limb—it was a disconcerting sound to hear in the night. It might be a fox, she told herself. The next cry was muffled, but Pru knew the direction—it came from down in Ranelagh Gardens—and she knew a fox would never call out her name.