Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (11 page)

Marcus’s eyes shifted from Pru to Christopher to the ground and back to Pru. “What happened?” he asked.

“Christopher, this is Marcus Rojas. Marcus, this is Christopher Pearse,” Pru said. A totally needless, yet completely necessary introduction.

The two men mumbled something and shook hands. “Let’s go inside,” Pru said and led them into the narrow front hall where she and Christopher shed their coats and Marcus stood with his hands in his pockets. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked Marcus.

“Why do people keep asking me that?” he responded. Pru didn’t answer, but went down the short hall to the kitchen. The two men followed, positioned themselves—Christopher against the wall and Marcus in the doorway—and watched her fill the electric kettle.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any food to offer,” she said, opening the fridge as confirmation.

“You don’t have a bowl of pimiento cheese in there like your mom used to?” Marcus asked.

In that instant he transported her to her mother’s kitchen with its red-and-gray Formica table and chairs, where there was always something for her and her friends to eat. She looked over her shoulder at Marcus. “No,” she said. “No pimiento cheese.” She shut the fridge door. “Did you see the police take me away?”

“I saw them, but I didn’t know who they were,” Marcus said. “Some guy came up and started writing in a notebook—he wasn’t a reporter, just one of the gardeners—and said they were taking you in for questioning about Iain Blackwell. He—the gardener—said, ‘Somebody should do something,’ and left.” Marcus shrugged. “I don’t think he was talking to me, but then I thought that…you”—he nodded at Christopher—“might be able to help.”

“How did you find Christopher?” she asked.

“I called Lydia and woke her up. Yeah,” he said to himself, “I’ll need to give her a call back. And she told me to start with Scotland Yard.” Marcus glanced at Christopher. “I thought she was kidding, but I found a phone number and started calling.”

“I appreciate it,” Christopher said. “Did you ring the station here?”

Marcus shook his head. “I didn’t think they’d tell me anything.” He turned to Pru. “So what happened?” Marcus asked.

“They asked me questions about where I was on Monday afternoon, and how Iain and I got along. I thought that his death was an accident—that’s what everyone said. I didn’t even have a chance to tell you about it,” she said to Christopher. “I didn’t know anything until yesterday—and didn’t find out that it wasn’t an accident until this morning.”

“Why would they consider her a suspect?” Marcus asked Christopher.

Christopher shrugged slightly. “Everyone’s a suspect to begin with,” he said. “But someone—Blakie wouldn’t say who it was—told them that Pru was arguing with Blackwell.”

“Sounds like a setup to me,” Marcus said. “Would someone set her up to look guilty?”

“It’s not that she looks guilty. It’s just their way of going about the investigation.”

“She was dragged into the station like a criminal,” Marcus said.

“They could have their reasons for not questioning her at the garden.”

“Don’t you think she should be careful? Should she even keep this job? If Blackwell was killed, then…”

Pru’s head bounced back and forth between them as if she was watching a Ping-Pong match, but she could take it no longer.

“Hello?” she called to them. “I’m in the room.”

The two men looked at her, startled, and then both smiled. Too bizarre—Pru was reminded of the title of an old science-fiction movie: When Worlds Collide.

“What were you arguing about?” Marcus asked.

“The usual,” Pru said.

Christopher knew. “Why they asked you to work on the project?”

She nodded. “The last thing I did was yell at him. ‘I’m not finished with this,’ or something like that. That hardly sounds like a death threat.” She frowned. “Or does it?”

Neither replied, but Marcus said, “Alastair said he’d see you tomorrow.”

“You bet he will. I can never find him, and when I do, he won’t give me a straight answer.” Happy to channel her fear and frustration into annoyance at Alastair, she said, “Well, he will tomorrow.”

“And I don’t suppose you’ll quit,” Marcus said.

“No,” Pru replied, “I don’t suppose I will.” Uncertainty about her commitment to the job had vanished—chased away by her stubborn streak, no doubt. She wouldn’t quit—but she could be fired.

The kettle switched off. “Well, I’ve got to go,” Marcus said. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Thanks for finding Christopher,” Pru said, following him to the door.

“Yeah, well, I figured a policeman should come in handy,” Marcus said. “What can a gardener do? Hit someone with a shovel?”

Pru flashed on the image of a body—beaten with a shovel—she’d found in a London garden shed over a year ago. She shuddered and closed the door.

When she turned, Christopher stood in the doorway to the front room. She gave him half a smile. “I suppose we’ll run into a woman from your past one of these days, won’t we?”

“Not if I can help it,” he said.

She laughed and as she did, the knots in her shoulders and her back began to melt away. She drew her arms up and around Christopher’s neck, and he pulled her close. She heaved an enormous sigh. “Thank you for coming to rescue me,” she whispered, and leaned her head back to get him in focus. “You can help me pack.”

“I thought you wouldn’t quit,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“I won’t quit, but they may very well let me go. Why would they want to keep me after this?”

“Would your Mr. Menzies give up that easily?”

“Mr. Menzies would never give up—he loved what he did. He said he was often lured into dangerous situations by plants and flowers and foliage,” Pru said, remembering an entry about the treasures of Botany Bay. “He’d climb around cliffs trying to get just one more plant that he saw…more worried about losing his collection than his own life. Once he…” She stopped and saw that ghost of a smile playing about Christopher’s lips. She wagged a finger at him. “Oh, you are good.”

“Don’t let what’s happened keep you from work you enjoy,” Christopher said. “Will you tell me more about him?”

She hesitated. She was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about Mr. Menzies, and she hoped he wasn’t talking about Marcus. “You mean Iain?” He nodded. “I know next to nothing about him, except that we got in arguments almost every time we talked. He didn’t like me having this job, but he wouldn’t say why. He knew a lot about the journal—but Alastair keeps telling me that I’m the one they wanted for the project.” She pressed her lips together. “I still don’t understand that.”

“Maybe you don’t need to—you can show them you were the right choice.”

“I love your pep talks,” she murmured, resuming her position up against his body. She kissed him, tugging slightly at his bottom lip. His hand slipped just inside her waistband.

His phone rang. Pru rolled her eyes as he stepped away to answer.

“Pearse. Sir—yes, sir.”

Sir? Pru could so easily forget that Christopher had a boss. It wasn’t as if he ran the entire Metropolitan Police on his own, she reminded herself.

“Yes, sir, I understand….I was able to clear that case, and I’ve handed the Jones case over to Rodgers, all my case notes….Yes, sir, I will….No, sir….Of course. Thank you, sir.” He rang off.

Pru crossed her arms. “You’re in trouble,” she said. Because of me, she added to herself.

“I left in a rush, but not without explaining that I needed to take a few days off. I told them it was a family emergency”—he held up his index finger—“which it was.” He said something else about covering his cases, but Pru didn’t hear, because she was basking in the glow of family. “And besides,” he said, gathering her up in his arms, “you didn’t sound right the other evening. Something was bothering you—and that was before you found out about Blackwell.”

He x-rayed her with his penetrating brown eyes. She weighed telling him the true story of her dress fitting, but a knock saved her.

“No one ever comes to visit me,” she said as she opened the door to find Saskia, her wet hair stuck to her face, shivering on the front step.

“Pru, my God, are you all right? This is all my fault, I’m so sorry.”

“Come in,” Pru said, taking hold of her arm. Word had swept through the garden quickly, it seemed. Christopher stepped into the hall, and Pru made the introductions.

“That was very lucky you were here, Christopher,” Saskia said.

“He’s here because of what happened,” Pru said. “Would you like tea?” she asked, heading down the hall. “The kettle boiled a few minutes ago—I’ll just give it a boost.”

Saskia followed and, once in the kitchen, took her coat off and handed it to Christopher, who trailed behind. “Oh, let me do that.” Pru stood back, lifting her eyebrows at Christopher, while Saskia, as if by instinct, found the tea, mugs, milk, and digestive biscuits before the kettle had switched off again. She pulled a tray out from beside the microwave, and once loaded, said, “Shall we go out to the front room?”

They settled, Christopher and Pru on the sofa, Saskia on the chair opposite. “Here now, I’ll be the mother,” she said, and poured out the tea.

“Saskia, did you see the police this morning?” Pru asked.

The young woman shook her head. “I was in the orchid house, but later, I saw a few people gathered round outside and asked what was going on.” She took a sip of tea and put it down. “But it’s because of me that they questioned you. I never meant it to come to this.”

Christopher held his mug with both hands. “What did they ask?”

“Late yesterday, after I’d left you,” Saskia said, giving Pru a nod, “a woman was at the front desk, and I heard her say something about Iain.” Saskia took up her mug again and looked into its milky contents. “I made a comment—‘oh, isn’t it too bad’ or some such thing—and then I found out she was a policewoman. She asked me if I knew him, and when was the last time I saw him.” Saskia switched her attention from tea to Pru. “That’s when I mentioned I’d seen the two of you the afternoon before.”

“Oh,” Pru said. “You told them that Iain and I were arguing.”

“I didn’t think they would accuse you of killing him,” Saskia said.

“She’s not accused of anything,” Christopher said and took Pru’s hand. “Did you know Iain well?”

Saskia shook her head as she set her cup down. “I’ve seen him a few times. When he came to your office, Pru. And, of course, I know what you’ve told me about him.”

What a mess. And it was too late in the day to go back to the garden and start sorting it out—she would be at Alastair’s door first thing in the morning.

“Well…” Saskia stood up and gathered all the tea things back onto the tray. “I’ll be going now. Let me just take these in for you.”

She rattled down the hall and Pru heard water in the sink. She made to follow, but turned back to Christopher. “I told you she was efficient.”

Christopher opened the fridge and inspected the remnants of Pru’s chicken-and-ham pie. “It was delicious,” she said, looking over his shoulder. “Sorry I didn’t save you any, but I know a lovely little Italian place nearby.”

The restaurant sat below street level, down a set of steps. Pru had been in once, eating alone at a table near the door and knew that with only seven or eight tables, it would give them a quiet spot to talk.

But a hen party arrived just after them and sat at two tables pushed together; that put an end to any quiet conversation. It was a merry gathering—the bride wore a tiara and they went through several bottles of prosecco—but the volume of their voices rose in correlation to the volume of alcohol consumed. Christopher nodded in their direction and said, “That’ll be you before long.” Pru smiled and touched his hand. They finished their meal in silence—at least, they were silent—and walked back to her flat.

She sat on the bed waiting for him, her knees pulled up under her chin and arms wrapped around her legs. He came out of the bathroom and joined her.

“And now,” he said, his finger drawing a line down her arm, “what is it? Is it seeing Marcus again?”

That caught her off balance. She looked up and laughed. “No, not Marcus.” She shrugged. “Marcus and I were friends before we were…anything else. I’d hoped we could be friends again.” She shook her head. “That seems unlikely now.”

She saw Christopher’s mouth twitch. “Well,” he said and exhaled. “And so, what?”

Confession time at last. She blushed. “It’s our wedding.” She rested her chin on her knee and looked down at her toes. “I’m embarrassed—well, part of the time, anyway. Half the time I’m embarrassed because I feel like I’m too old to be doing all this—weddings and dresses and cakes and receptions—that’s all for young women. And the other half the time,” she hurried on before he could break in to reassure her, “I can’t wait for our wedding day. To stand up in front of family and friends and declare our love and commitment. And have a big party.”

“Was it your dress fitting that started this?” he asked. “Are you not happy with what Madame Fiona came up with?”

Pru moved her head in a figure-eight pattern—something between a nod and a shake. “We aren’t…quite there yet.” Now the details of blue satin sash and puffy sleeves seemed trivial.

“You know, as far as I’m concerned, you could stand up there with nothing on at all.” He narrowed his eyes. “With your hair up. Wearing high heels.” He slipped the skinny strap of her nightgown off her shoulder.

“And would I carry flowers?” she whispered.

He leaned over, his lips nuzzling her bare shoulder. “You don’t need to. You always smell like flowers, anyway. I don’t know how you do that.”

“Don’t you?” she asked, cocking her head so that he could reach behind her ear. “I sneak out of bed in the middle of the night and bathe in a tubful of petals.” He paused and watched her without speaking. “Perhaps you could join me,” she suggested, “and we could have the ceremony there.” She edged closer until their lips almost touched.

“Wait,” he said. “Do you have cowboy boots?”

It was cold cereal for breakfast. With one meal accounted for, Pru scribbled down a shopping list while she thought about talking with Alastair—if she could find him.

“Would you like to see the garden this morning?” she asked Christopher. It was as if her mind ran on separate rail lines—one line concerned with Iain’s death and what might happen to her and her job, and the other given over to her joy at Christopher’s presence.

“I’ll do the shopping this morning,” he said, pocketing her list. “Why don’t I meet you for lunch?”

A bright spot shone in the middle of the day. “Yes, lunch. At the Terrace Café at Inverleith House. It’s right in the middle of the garden.” She gasped and grabbed his wrist. “We can meet Alan while you’re here. This is perfect!” Reality made an abrupt appearance as she remembered he came to Edinburgh because of Iain’s death. “No, I don’t mean that, it’s just that…I’m happy to see you.”

No sign of Mrs. Murchie, but Pru would stop later and invite her to tea—and to meet Christopher. Pru hoped for a quick and quiet journey to her office, but when she walked through the west gate and into the visitors’ center, she saw Victoria at the information desk, checking her ever-present clipboard.

“Pru,” she said, striding over and putting a hand on her arm as if in fear that Pru would run off. “Are you all right?” she asked, her eyes cutting left and right. “We were all very concerned when we heard that the police had spoken with you.”

“Yes, thanks, I’m fine.” But wait. “Did the police talk with you?”

“A police constable stopped by yesterday, midday, but I was surrounded by twenty children all holding handfuls of worms for our compost lesson—one little girl kept stuffing them down the boys’ shirts. The policeman said he would ring me later this week.”

So, Victoria didn’t get escorted to the police station. But really, what had she to do with Iain? “Well, I’m just off to talk with Alastair.” Pru tugged her arm away from Victoria’s grip. “Have you seen him this morning?”

“Oh, you know Alastair,” Victoria said, “you see him only when he wants to be seen.”

Pru nodded in agreement and left to walk across the gardens to his office. Murdo—his morning assignment appeared to be changing the bin liners in the recycling containers—called to her. “Pru? Are you all right?”

Was this how it was going to be? She took a sharp right to walk closer, so he wouldn’t shout his concern to the world.

“Yes, Murdo, I’m fine. Really.”

“The police didn’t throw you in the nick, did they? Did they treat you all right? They weren’t accusing you of…well, you know. How could they? I’d say Mr. Blackwell had more than one enemy.” He leaned in, his eyes wide and his voice barely audible.

“I wasn’t Iain’s enemy, Murdo. They wanted to ask me about him because we worked together. That’s all. I’m sure the police are talking with many people at the garden.”

“It’s verra poor treatment for someone like you, and we won’t stand for it,” he said, lifting his chin.

“Thank you, Murdo, I appreciate your support. I’d best be on my way.” She walked off, but turned back to ask if he’d seen Alastair. Like an alcoholic taking a nip when no one was looking, Murdo glanced around and pulled the black notebook out of his pocket. Curiosity overcame Pru at last. She walked up behind him and looked over his shoulder, trying to decipher the neat rows of writing she’d noticed before. She had time to see nothing more than a few numbers and letters—“9.25PPWG”—before he noticed her and snapped the book shut, almost snapping her nose in with it.

“Have you seen Alastair?” she asked.

“No,” he said with a blank face. “I have not.”

She crept up to Alastair’s door as if stalking a rare bird that would take flight at the first sign of danger. His door was ajar, and he worked quietly at his desk.

“Alastair?” She gave a little knock, just to be official.

“Pru, come in, please. I intended to stop by and see you today.” An air of concern dampened Alastair’s usual jovial demeanor. “I’m so sorry about yesterday—why the police thought they needed to take you away from the garden just to ask a few questions, well, I don’t understand it.”

Pru sat in the chair across the desk from him and decided to say nothing about Saskia reporting Pru’s argument to the police; she didn’t want to get the young woman in trouble. “Have they questioned you?” she asked. “Did they ask you about Iain?”

“A constable came by and went office to office yesterday,” he said. “I answered his questions, although I had little to offer. I was out most of the day on Monday.” So, Pru thought, although the rest of the staff seemed to have dealt with a uniform officer on-site, she got the full-meal deal in an interview room with an inspector.

“Alastair, why did you choose me for this project when Iain obviously knew it inside and out?”

She had caught him off guard, and for a moment he didn’t reply, but sat with his mouth slightly open. “But, Pru”—recovered, he spoke in a rush—“how can you say that? You were an excellent choice. Just look what you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”

How did he know what she had accomplished—she could never find him to fill him in. “Iain made the occasional comment”—there’s an understatement—“about how I got the job. He seemed to think I bought my way in. Why would he think that?”

“Iain misspoke,” Alastair said in a clipped voice. “It was inappropriate of him to think he could refer to arrangements that had nothing to do with him.”

“Arrangements?”

“No, no, not arrangements. Proceedings. Policy. It was none of his business.” Alastair rose abruptly and a magazine slid out of his lap and landed on the floor under the desk. Pru bent down to pick it up.

“At Home in Canberra—your guide to property and estate agents,” she read aloud. “Weren’t you and your wife on holiday in Australia? Are you thinking of moving?”

“Dreaming,” Alastair said as he smiled and took the glossy from her, slipping it into a drawer. “Just dreaming. How could I leave? The job market in Australia is fierce.”

The four walls of her office waited for her like a jail cell. She must stay focused—if nothing else, to be ready for Saskia that afternoon. Reread the new journal, examine letters, chase down plant descriptions. Iain had seemed concerned about that fuchsia Mr. Menzies wrote up. Pru pulled out her phone.

Lawlor Dale at Kew had no news for her and little time to talk. Pru tried to be helpful and suggested looking for the lost letters—for she could see them now, turned sepia with age and tied together with a length of black ribbon—in the correspondence of a former student of Banks.

The phone call had distracted her only momentarily—her thoughts turned immediately back to Iain. Who would want to kill him? Why does anyone kill? Revenge, jealousy, money, sex—that had been the topic for an idle discussion she’d had with Christopher months ago on a snowy winter’s day as they’d huddled together in front of a fire and looked back on her marginal involvement in two deaths.

Who would gain by Iain’s death? Her limited circle of acquaintances at the garden wouldn’t allow Pru to speculate too far; still, she began a mental list of the only people she knew. Alastair, who didn’t want Iain in charge of the Menzies project. Why hadn’t he trusted Iain with the document? Murdo, whom Iain treated poorly in public. Ever-present Murdo seemed to be always watching her. Or had he been watching Iain? And Victoria? Did she harbor secret feelings for the unattainable Iain? Could Iain’s partner be a suspect? That stretched her imagination too far—Pru had never met Iain’s partner. She sighed.

She closed her eyes. Revenge, jealousy—she fit those categories. She had the most to lose if Iain had gained control of the project. Iain had accused her of trying to buy her reputation—a loud accusation in the presence of others. No wonder the police took her down to the station for questioning. Did she remain the prime suspect, or were they “pursuing other lines of inquiry?” They ought to—after all, she was innocent. Perhaps she had better begin to ask a few questions herself. Here at the garden, she might be able to find out more than the police.

She stood and stretched, casting off imaginings and suppositions. For now, she would get to work on her real job.

Not long before lunch, Christopher appeared at her open door.

“You must’ve asked for directions,” she said, rising to greet him. “How else could you have found me?”

“I didn’t need to ask,” he replied. “As I walked along that massive hedge, a fellow came up and asked if I needed help. I didn’t realize I looked lost. He knew exactly where you were, though, and pointed me here.”

“A gardener?” Christopher nodded. “Probably Murdo,” she said. “He seems to be in everyone’s business.” She took her coat off the hook and waved around the room. “Here’s the office. Not much to see. We’ll take the long way to lunch, and I can show you this little spot I’ve found with Mr. Menzies’s beech. It’s a lovely day.” For early spring in Edinburgh.

At the café, the lunch crowd forced them to decide between sharing a table or braving the chill on the sunny terrace—they chose the terrace and sat as far from the smokers as possible.

“You found the shops?” Pru asked, dipping a piece of bread into her soup—curried lentil.

“I didn’t go to the shops,” Christopher said, picking up his beef sandwich. “I went back to talk with Inspector Blakie.”

Pru paused with her soggy bread in midair. “Why? Do I have to go back to the station? I don’t know what else I can tell them. Am I still a suspect?”

“I don’t want you to worry about that,” he said, covering her free hand with his. “It’s a process. They will look into every detail of the day and Blackwell’s life to find clues. It isn’t you alone.”

“So far it feels like it’s just me. What did you talk to the inspector about?”

“Yesterday,” Christopher said, “he mentioned a phone call he’d received on your behalf.”

“From you?”

“No, I didn’t phone. Whomever it was, Blakie didn’t like it. He said something about being strong-armed and”—Christopher frowned—“something about you being from Texas.”

“He thinks because I’m from Texas I could kill someone?” Pru’s voice rose in alarm. “It isn’t the Wild West.” She took a breath. “Is that why you asked Marcus if he rang the police here?”

Christopher nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t him and Blakie wouldn’t say who it was. At least, not yet. I think he’ll tell me more—I’ve offered to help him with some background information on another case he has—one with ties to London.” He paused before taking a bite of his sandwich. “He’s retiring soon—in a fortnight.”

“Is he?” Pru asked. “And what does that mean to the case?”

“That he’s either quite eager to wrap it up or will walk away regardless. I very much believe it’s the latter.”

The chill and damp from the bench had seeped through her trousers, and she gave a thought to her bag, sitting on the flagstone at her feet, in its perpetual open state. She picked it up and set it next to her, rearranging its contents and burying her small purse farther into its recesses. She shouldn’t leave her bag open all the time, she knew it. Someone could reach in and…

Pru frowned. “Why wasn’t he mugged?”

Christopher raised his eyebrows.

“Why don’t they think Iain was mugged?” she asked. “The police seemed to go directly past the possibility of a random attack and straight to me. Why?”

He gave her an appraising look. “Why indeed? Good work, Ms. Parke.”

Ooh, she loved it when they played policeman and witness. “Thank you, Inspector,” she said.

Pru felt as if she were opening and closing the cupboards in her brain in this guessing game of who killed Iain, and when she opened the next one, she found a potted lemon tree, its terra-cotta smashed.

“I forgot to tell you this,” she said. “Truly, I forgot.” She related the story of the glasshouse accident in great detail, even her attempt to climb the stairs. “Iain asked if I’d seen anyone on the catwalk, but I hadn’t. And then we learned that someone had been up there working—although I don’t think we ever got a name. It was an accident, but I should’ve told you.”

Christopher looked at her for a long moment. He took her hand across the table as if to reassure himself she was all right. “Did you tell Duncan?”

She shook her head. “But I will. First thing.”

“Hiya, Pru.” Murdo, the bad penny, turned up at their table with the handle of a spade resting on his shoulder. He looked at Christopher expectantly.

“Christopher, this is Murdo Trotter. Murdo, Christopher Pearse. Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse.”

“Are you part of the investigation into Mr. Blackwell’s death, sir?” Murdo’s voice was low, conspiratorial.

“Christopher works for the Met. In London.”

“Trotter!” A crew had started working just below the terrace on the foundation plantings around the house.

“Right,” Murdo called and looked back at Pru. “We’re digging everything out—that’s one thing they’ll let me do. See you, Pru. Sir.” He nodded at Christopher.

Pru smiled as Murdo hopped down into the bed and began hacking at the roots of a boxwood. “Well, he seems happy with his lot.” She checked her phone. “Almost time for Saskia. I finish at four.”

“Right,” he said as they stood, “I’m off to the shops.”

“Chicken,” she said. “Remember, I can roast a chicken.” It was the one dish she had mastered.

“Yes.” He kissed her. “I remember.”