Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (16 page)

Pru cleared her head at lunch by walking back to her flat, where she found a large box on the front step—the shoes. She dragged the box into the front room, sat on the sofa, and tore in, lining up all six pairs on the coffee table. Their neutral color—a shade of old ivory—told her nothing of the dress to come. She started with the first pair—strappy spike heels at least five inches high. She pulled off her shoes and socks and wiggled her foot through the tangle of thin straps, a couple of which ended up under her right big toe. She started over again, and finally, when every strap had been accounted for, she stood. If only for a moment.

Her arms flew in circles as she pitched forward and then backward until finally plopping down on the sofa. My God, Pru thought—had Jo forgotten her fear of heights?

The second pair, which had even more straps, including one that went around her ankle and closed with a tiny buckle, was no better. She eyed the next pair with caution—clunky heels and big toe enclosures; they looked like boxcars next to the stilettos. Included only for the shock value, Pru was sure. The heels of the last few pairs appeared more reasonable—at least, in comparison with the dizzying heights of the first two. Still quite spiky, but at least a bit lower to the ground, and with fewer confusing straps. She chose the least ornate of the three—leaving behind the pair with a rhinestone starburst and the pair that looked suspiciously like snakeskin—and this time when she stood, she kept her hands on the coffee table and pushed her bottom in the air, before slowly standing up straight. Good, fine. Now, to walk.

After a few wobbles and one almost-turned ankle, she spent ten minutes circling her tiny flat. Satisfied that she’d passed the spike heels test, she restored her feet to their proper fittings and went back to work.

At least her body was at work; she had no idea where she’d left her mind. Perhaps a light task would suit—she pulled over a pad of paper and considered potential titles for her yet-to-be-written scholarly article on Mr. Menzies.

She began in a serious state of mind—“Plant Collecting in South America”—but decided that would put even an academic to sleep. Next, she tried mystery: “Archibald Menzies and the Case of the Missing Journal.” Too Nancy Drew. And before she could stop herself, she’d scribbled “Is That a Fuchsia in Your Pocket, or Are You Just Happy to See Me?” Giggling, she hastily scratched it out when her her phone rang.

She looked at the caller ID and broke out in a sweat.

“Madame Fiona?”

“Ms. Parke, I want to apologize to you for any misunderstanding we might have had for your initial fitting.”

“Oh, please, don’t worry,” Pru said.

“I’ve had a long chat with Ms. Howard, and we are proceeding in a different direction. We go forward with confidence, Ms. Parke. Now,” she said, her voice softening, “I wonder if I could impose upon you to stop in this afternoon.”

“For my fitting?” Pru couldn’t decide if it was better to be ambushed like this or if she’d prefer to be given time to worry about it.

“It’s a matter of a personal nature.”

Perhaps she needed advice about her garden. Like doctors, gardeners often fielded questions from friends and acquaintances, only the subject was different—black spot on the roses instead of a pain in the shoulder. “Well, certainly, I’d be happy to.”

As they rang off, Saskia arrived. “Right, Pru,” she said, hanging up her coat, “what have we got today?”

Pru opened the journal to a page she’d marked. “I was just rereading the entries for Botany Bay. Listen,” she said, and read:

“After kindling a fire and refreshing ourselves on whatever game & fish the day afforded, we drank a cheerful glass to the memory of Captain Cook whose steps we were now pursuing…”

“It all sounds so rosy,” Saskia said, frowning. “Even when he almost gets himself killed or when Captain Vancouver was on his case, he blathers on about camaraderie or his fondness for mosses and ferns.”

Pru smiled; she considered his optimism part of Mr. Menzies’s charm.

Daylight had begun to extend its reign by eating into the darkness of morning and evening. Pru walked to Madame Fiona’s under sunny—or at least brighter gray—skies, and she realized that on the day of their wedding, it would be light until well after ten o’clock. Would they be dancing in Caledonian Hall with the doors open to the garden—or on the lino floor of a characterless parish hall? Dancing—her stomach lurched. She must ask Christopher about that.

She took a deep breath and opened the door. The bell tinkled, Tassie yipped, and from behind the partition, a male voice said, “Is that you, Ms. Parke?”

She looked around the opening, saying, “I’m sorry, is Madame Fiona not here? She asked me to…” Sitting on the sofa along one wall was the dapper, friendly man she’d talked with her first day at the garden—Alexander Donnell.

He stood and extended his hand. “Hello again. Do you remember we’ve met?” He smiled, but it seemed a weary effort. He’d lost his dapper appearance, and his eyes were rimmed red.

“I do, yes,” Pru said. “My first day—do you work at the garden?” She’d seen him since then, hadn’t she?

Madame Fiona came in from the back with the tea tray and replied, “My nephew is no gardener, Ms. Parke—his creativity lies elsewhere.” She nodded from one to the other. “Ms. Parke, Alexander Donnell. Sandy, Prunella Parke.”

Pru blushed at the use of her full name; she could still forget she lived in a country where it wasn’t that unusual. “Yes, of course,” she said, “I remember Madame Fiona mentioned you…” She stopped. The dressmaker had said Sandy had a boyfriend at the Botanics. On her first day, Alexander had asked her if she’d seen Iain. She sank down onto the bench. “Oh—you’re Iain’s partner?” Sandy pressed his lips together in what he might have intended as a smile. “I’m so sorry,” Pru said.

He nodded and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Bourbon creams,” Madame Fiona said, setting out the tray of biscuits. “I thought we needed something special. Sandy’s favorite.” She patted her nephew’s hand.

He smiled. “And Tassie’s,” he said. Tassie stood on her fern stand, her tiny tail quivering.

When they had settled with tea and biscuits—Tassie crunching delicately on her morsel—Madame Fiona said, “Ms. Parke, please accept my thanks for coming round today, and on such short notice.” She slipped her feet into shoes that had been tucked under the tea table. “It’s just that I thought you might be able to offer some advice or insight into how the search is proceeding for the horrible person that killed Sandy’s Iain.”

Sandy’s Iain. Tears sprang into Pru’s eyes—and Sandy’s, too, she could see—as she realized that Iain had belonged to someone who cared about him and missed him.

She cleared her throat. “I don’t really have any information. The police questioned me—because we both were working on the Menzies journal,” she said in a hurry to Sandy, hoping she wouldn’t need to go into detail about the arguments that blossomed out of almost every conversation with Iain.

“But your fiancé from the Metropolitan Police, Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said. “He was here to help you through the questioning process. Perhaps he’s assisting with the investigation?”

Before Pru had a chance to wonder how that information had made its way to the dress shop, Sandy said, “Alastair mentioned it when I spoke with him today.”

Well, how nice. Alastair talked with someone—just not her.

“Christopher has nothing to do with the investigation. It’s just that he was able to come up from London for a visit. At the last minute.” But Pru hated to leave them with nothing. “You should ask the police directly. Have you spoken with Detective Inspector Blakie or DS Duncan?”

“They’ve certainly spoken with Sandy,” Madame Fiona said, her color rising as she plonked her tea onto the table, causing a small tidal wave in her cup that sloshed over the side and into the saucer. “These police see what they want to see. Taking aim at Sandy will do them no good if they’re searching for the killer.”

“They aren’t taking aim at me, Fee-Fee,” Sandy said. “They’re examining every eventuality—I understand that.” He turned to Pru. “It’s just that, when they look at me, they see someone with form—a police record.”

“You were a child when that happened,” Madame Fiona said with such passion that her voice caught in her throat. “You were being bullied and beaten up by ignorant ruffians.”

“I fought back,” Sandy said to Pru, with a small smile. “They didn’t expect that from a skinny teenager—a dancer. They didn’t know I had a bit of a temper. There were three of them—I broke a couple of noses and knocked out a few teeth. Taken into the station and charged.”

“You had every right to defend yourself,” Madame Fiona said with a sniff.

Sandy shook his head. “I don’t think the police see it that way.”

Pru stole a glance at Madame Fiona, who gazed at her nephew with shining eyes.

“It’s just standard, don’t you think, that they would want to get everyone’s story?” Pru asked. “They wanted to know where I was, and I told them I came over here”—she looked at Madame Fiona—“for my…fitting.” She must get this out. “Madame Fiona, I’m so sorry for the way I acted that afternoon.”

Madame Fiona waved her apology away. “Don’t give it another thought, Ms. Parke. First fittings are often a shocking experience. Why, the Duchess of Knockdee fainted dead away on that very dais when I showed her my first design for her wedding dress—I believe it was her third marriage.” Madame Fiona gazed at the dais as if she could still see the recumbent form of the Duchess. “She had told me that when she was a girl, she held a great love of horses, and I felt the need to explore this equine side of her personality.”

Sandy snorted. “I think it was the whip that did her in.”

“Riding crop, young man,” Madame Fiona said while Sandy shook with laughter. “And that’ll be enough out of you.”

Pru giggled, relieved to know she wasn’t alone when it came to outlandish first fittings. Sandy said, “I told Fee-Fee that she was missing her calling.”

Madame Fiona smiled indulgently and said, “I must let my creative energies have their way, at least for a while. And as for you, Ms. Parke”—Pru called herself to attention—“perhaps you could stop in at lunch on Thursday. Although I am ill-prepared today, I will have something for you then.”

Madame Fiona carried Tassie off to the back room as Pru began stacking cups. Sandy said, “My aunt is more concerned than she need be about all this police business, wouldn’t you say?”

“I know it can be disconcerting,” Pru said. “But, you’ve told them where you were that afternoon, right?”

Sandy looked down at his shoes for a moment. “Say, you wouldn’t have time for a drink, would you? I could explain myself better without my great defender around,” he said, nodding toward the back.

He led them to a corner pub with a bright interior and lots of windows. A smiling waitress stopped by the table with an impressive list of cocktails and a tapas menu. It was the opposite of Pru’s usual pub haunts, but a cheery place.

“Do you enjoy working at the garden?” Sandy said.

Pru thought only a moment before deciding to keep the lid on that can of worms. She nodded. “Yes, it’s a lovely place. What work are you in?”

“I’m a dancer,” he said with a smile.

“Oh, professionally? Are you in a troupe here in Edinburgh?”

“I own a studio. We let space to a local troupe, and come festival time, the place is heaving with bookings for out-of-town groups to rehearse. But most of the year, I teach dance.”

The waitress set down Pru’s French 75 and Sandy’s vodka martini and left. “Cheers,” Sandy said.

“What sort of dance do you teach?” Pru asked. “Show dancing?”

Sandy shook his head. “No, we teach couples dancing, all sorts—Latin, ballroom, social, country western—I’m not above a schottische.”

Pru traced the outline of the coaster with her finger. “Your classes, they must last weeks and weeks. Do they?”

She didn’t look up, but could see the smile on his face. “Not at all—we offer programs that last one or two sessions. Those are especially popular for engaged couples planning the first dance at their wedding.”

Christopher’s hand, firm on her waist, guided her about the dance floor. The music swelled—a waltz?—and they twirled round and round the room, the lights and the faces a blur as their eyes locked in a look that held the love and commitment they had promised during the ceremony…

Pru glanced up at Sandy, her face red; a nervous laugh escaped. “We aren’t taught dancing in the States,” she explained. “Not in school. When we get to be adolescents, they just shove us out onto the dance floor to flail around as best we can.”

“I hope you’ll let me know if you and your fiancé…”

“Christopher,” Pru said.

“If you and Christopher want a lesson before your wedding, I’d be happy to help.”

Pru nodded. “Thanks, I’ll talk with him. This whole wedding planning is far beyond my realm of expertise.” After a moment of silence, she came back to the reason for their pub drink—Iain. “Did Iain dance?”

Sandy smiled. “It wasn’t one of his strong suits, but it played its role. We had a mutual friend who appeared on Strictly Come Dancing, and a group of us got together in London to watch one of the programs. That’s where we met—five years ago now. He was teaching at Merrist Wood, but a long-distance relationship is hard, so a couple of years ago, he came here to the Botanics to take the post in special collections.”

Which drew Pru to the question she couldn’t shake: If it was Iain’s job, what am I doing here? “I’m enjoying my work, and I really love the Botanics,” Pru said, “but Iain knew so much about this subject. I’ve never understood why he didn’t take on the project.”

“Don’t you?” Sandy said, with one eyebrow raised. “No—sorry, it’s just that he wouldn’t talk about it, except to say that special arrangements had been made and he wasn’t in control.”

“That didn’t go over well, did it?”

“No, it didn’t.” Sandy shook his head slightly and looked down into his glass. “But that wasn’t the only thing that was wrong. We’d been having problems for months, but lately, things had grown worse. He seemed preoccupied, and I began inventing reasons in my head. I thought he was seeing someone.” Sandy glanced up. “I thought it was you.”

Pru choked as her drink went down the wrong way. “What? Me? That’s…” Well, no, not impossible. “No, Sandy, I’m sorry you thought that. Actually…we didn’t even get on very well.”

Sandy drained his martini and said, “I think I knew that—really. It’s just that Iain is…was a few years older than I am.” More than a few, Pru thought. “When he was young, it wasn’t an easy time for him to come out as gay. He’s had a few brief relationships in the past with women, and I thought…Well, really, it was much easier for me to look outside to find a reason for our problems. Sunday afternoon we started to talk, but it ended in a huge row. I shouted accusations, and he shouted denials…not our finest moment.” His voice broke.

Pru’s phone rang, and Sandy nodded toward it. “Go on—I’ll be right back.” He walked off toward the sign for the toilets as she answered.

“Pru? It’s Tamsin. Listen, thanks for the tip about Rosemary Campbell and Blackwell—although it turns out that both Campbells have alibis for that Monday afternoon. Mr. Campbell was in Glasgow, and then on a train back—plenty of CCTV for that—and Mrs. Campbell had not yet returned from Australia.”

“Good,” Pru said weakly, “I’m glad they’re in the clear.” And she meant that, really, but…“How did Rosemary seem when you spoke with her? Cooperative? Surprised? Annoyed?”

“To be questioned?” Tamsin asked. “She wasn’t best pleased. She did ask if you were the one that grassed her out, but I didn’t say.”

Whatever tiny flame of hope that still burned inside Pru—the remotest possibility of a wedding venue, Rosemary’s catering, and a cake—snuffed out. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered if you had told her,” Pru said, “she’ll know it’s me.”

“You’ve met Alexander Donnell—Blackwell’s partner?” Tamsin asked. “He’s Madame Fiona’s nephew.”

Pru looked at the empty seat across the table. “I’ve run into him.” As she said the words, it came back to her—the other time she’d seen him. It was just after her fitting—the afternoon Iain was killed. Sandy had looked distraught and hurried off around the corner toward his aunt’s dress shop.

Tamsin didn’t speak for a moment; Pru heard her exhale slowly and thought she’d probably lit a cigarette. “Has he told you where he was that afternoon?”

“No, but—he has an alibi, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve no idea—he won’t say, only that he didn’t do it. That isn’t good enough—especially as neighbors reported recent loud arguments from their flat.”

“Right, well, I’ll see what I can do.” Pru saw Sandy approaching.

“Oh, and, have you found a place for the wedding?” Tamsin asked.

“Yes,” said Pru. “And no. I’ll fill you in later.”

“Another round?” Sandy asked before he sat.

Pru nodded and said, “Thanks.” She would need another drink to try to insinuate herself into Sandy’s and Iain’s lives. When he brought the drinks over, Pru toyed with the curl of orange peel on the rim, before saying, “I remember now that we saw each other another time, outside the Botanics.”

Sandy didn’t speak, but busied himself fishing the olive out of his martini.

“We ran into each other—literally—around the corner from the dress shop. Do you recall?” she asked.

His eyes darted to her and he nodded. “I wanted to talk with Fee-Fee—she always has such a level head about her.” He smiled. “After my time in detention when I was a teen, my parents threw up their hands in despair, and Fee-Fee took me in, brought me down from Oban. I lived here in Edinburgh with her. She’s fiercely loyal to family, but very strict. I didn’t dare get into another fight with her as my guardian. And she brokered a peace with my mum and dad. Fee-Fee is the only reason we’re all still speaking.”

They’d wandered off into a different story from the one Pru intended; it was time to correct their course. After all, she’d already screwed up the chance to have her wedding catered, why not push Sandy far enough to sabotage the hope of a dance lesson, too? “That day, were you going to talk with your aunt about your argument with Iain?”

“I had walked out the evening before, after our row. I should’ve stayed and had it out with him, but instead, I ran to a friend—one well-chosen for maximum effect.” He raised a finger. “Nothing happened—it was all a show for Iain. I wanted to hurt him. I did that, didn’t I? I’ll always remember that. It’ll be my fault, forever my fault.” He took several quick breaths and blinked rapidly, but couldn’t stop a few tears from falling.

She hoped that wasn’t a confession she had just heard. “Sandy,” she said, after giving him a moment to locate his handkerchief, “did you see Iain at all that last day?” Please say no, she thought. Please have an alibi.

“You sound like that DS Duncan, Pru. Do you think I killed him?” he asked, watching her.

“Certainly not,” Pru said. “And, of course, you don’t have to tell me anything—but you must tell the police where you were that afternoon.”

“No.” His face hardened.

“But, Sandy, if you don’t tell them, you’ll remain a suspect.”

“They’ll find the person who killed him, and it won’t be necessary for me to ever say anything.”

“The police need to know,” she said.

“
I won’t do it
,” he shouted, his face blotched red, his blue eyes on fire. The noise in the pub subsided as heads turned toward their table.

“All right, all right,” Pru said quietly. He still had his temper, she could see.

Sandy’s voice softened, and he took a long drink of his martini. “I stayed away that night and all of Monday—until I ran off to see Fee-Fee. He wanted me gone before his wife…” His voice trailed off.

Pru reached over and touched his hand. “I’m sure he was happy to help. Isn’t that what friends are for—a listening ear when we need one?”

He relaxed and smiled. “It was a bit of a shock for him to find me standing on his front step. Not quite the image he wants the world to see of Sir Hugh Abercromby.” Sandy started at his own words; he took hold of Pru’s hand and held tight. “You won’t say anything, will you? You won’t mention his name to the police.”

Pru tugged at her hand. Who was this Sir Hugh? “Sandy, they need to know.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Sandy said, with quiet emphasis on each word. “It wouldn’t serve any purpose to embarrass someone of his stature for no reason—and I don’t want my actions to reflect poorly on Iain. It’s better to say nothing. Can you promise me?”

She couldn’t and lowered her gaze. “I’m sure they’ll be discreet.”

His eyebrows flickered, and he stood to gather his coat.

They parted with few words. God, Pru thought, some people could be so stubborn. As she walked back to her flat, she rang Tamsin but had to leave a message: “It’s Pru. Give me a ring.”

She set herself a fast pace down Glenogle, letting the cold air sweep away her dismal thoughts. Just as she reached Balmoral, she met Mrs. Murchie.

“Pru, I called on you just now. I’ve a hot beef pie for my tea,” she said, holding up a brown-paper carrier bag. “Would you join me?”

Grateful for the invitation, Pru followed Mrs. Murchie up the stairs to her door. Inside, the old woman set the bag on the floor in the hall with a “Not for you, my lad,” to Prumper, whose nose had picked up a delicious smell. She untied the sky-blue wool wrap from around her neck and hung it on the one empty, twiggy peg of her scarf rack.

Prumper abandoned the bag with the pie and instead batted once or twice at the end of the scarf. He paused, paw in the air, and locked his cornflower eyes on Pru. She got the oddest sensation—as if Prumper would open his mouth and speak to her at any moment. She leaned forward to listen, but the cat returned his attention to the scarf, batting it again. One of his claws snagged a strand of wool, and when the scarf tumbled down on his head, he scampered away.

The beef pie, hearty and flavorful, filled Pru and raised her spirits. As she buttoned up her coat to leave, she asked, “You wouldn’t know of any churches Christopher and I might look into for the ceremony, would you?”

“Oh dear, I thought you’d settled on Caledonian Hall?”

“Yes, well, I had, but there may be a problem.”

“Are things still unsettled at the Botanics? It doesn’t have to do with that poor man who died, does it?” Mrs. Murchie asked.

“I suppose it does,” Pru replied. “Indirectly.”

Mrs. Murchie rested her hand on the door latch, and a frown settled on her brow. “Something keeps coming back to me, Pru, about that afternoon. There’s something wrong about it.”

Pru nodded. “I know, it must’ve been awful for you to find him there. I’m glad Saskia came upon you, so she could help.”

Mrs. Murchie shook her head, a tiny movement as if she disagreed with herself, not Pru. “Where was my Prumper? I kept thinking. I asked everyone I came across, ‘Have you seen a Siamese cat?’ ”

“And that’s when you saw Iain?” Pru didn’t care for that image at all. Poor Mrs. Murchie, already upset about her missing cat, coming upon Iain lying facedown in the Water of Leith.

“No, but…” When Pru’s phone rang, Mrs. Murchie shook her head. “No, it’s gone now—you go ahead, answer your phone. We’ll talk again.”

It was Tamsin. Better to get this over with, she thought. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, resting her hand on Mrs. Murchie’s arm for a moment before stepping out and down the road, filling the sergeant in on the latest news: Sandy’s alibi.

“The high and mighty Sir Hugh, MSP?” the sergeant said, a note of awe in her voice.

“MSP?” Pru asked.

“Member of Scottish Parliament,” Tamsin replied, but for a moment Pru lost track of the conversation. She stood at her corner where a strong, soapy scent wafted on the chill air: Fairy washing-up liquid, if she wasn’t mistaken. She glanced around the well-lit road, but saw no one.

“Well, that’ll be easy enough to check,” Tamsin continued. “There’ll be CCTV at his building. If Donnell went in and stayed in until after Blackwell was found, he’ll have his alibi whether he wants it or not. Wait’ll Blakie hears this.”

Good job, Pru—dance lessons forfeited in short order. The image of twirling round the room in Christopher’s arms faded. At least one thing remained within her control; when she got in the door, she strapped on her heels and walked.