Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) (18 page)

The next morning, Pru engaged in the unproductive activity of drumming her fingers on the desk while waiting for a call from Lawlor Dale about Banks’s fuchsia at Kew. She contemplated ringing—would that be the fifth time in a week?—but thought that might appear as borderline harassment. She’d give him another day.

Unable to focus on anything else, she flipped through the library book Saskia had forgotten and realized she held in her hands the perfect distraction—and a reason to meet Saskia’s mother. Saskia had taken the day off work and so wouldn’t get the book until tomorrow—unless Pru dropped it by on the way to her lunchtime fitting. “I thought you might need it,” Pru practiced saying.

The address, a flat off the Lothian Road, was not remotely on her way to Madame Fiona’s, but that didn’t matter once Pru had settled on the diversion. She walked—through the Royal Circus and Queen Street Gardens and down into Princes Street Gardens, which acted as a suntrap on cold, sunny days and cut the noise from the street above. She came up at the corner of St. John’s and turned down Lothian, finding the flat above a chip shop along a stretch of the road that had yet to be turned into a film house or club.

Pru pressed the button next to the sign that read “Bennett” and waited long enough that she thought she should either press it again or give up, when she heard a click.

“Yes?” a woman asked, her voice a bit hoarse.

“Hello, I’m Pru Parke—I work with Saskia at the Botanics. Is this Mrs. Bennett? I happened to be passing and…”

“Please come up, Ms. Parke.” A buzzer sounded and the door unlocked.

The fried smell from the chippy followed Pru as she walked up the bare wooden staircase. In the glare of the fluorescent light overhead, she could see the place was clean, although in need of refurbishment. At the first landing, Pru approached a cracked-open door; she tapped lightly. A pale face appeared, blinking against the light. Startled, Pru jumped, but then covered with a light laugh.

“Mrs. Bennett?”

“Do come in, Ms. Parke.”

The door opened into a dimly lit sitting room; Pru didn’t move at first, afraid she’d run into something before her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A large window covered with heavy drapes allowed only the suggestion of sunshine to penetrate and in a far corner a small table lamp put out a dull yellow light. Through a doorway, Pru could see a pale glow on the floor, no more power than a night-light. The air—dense and oily—pressed in on her.

“Is there something wrong at Saskia’s work?” Mrs. Bennett’s voice, even when asking a question, was flat, as if it had been ironed of all inflection.

“Everything’s fine. It’s only—she forgot to take this with her yesterday,” Pru said, holding out the book.

Mrs. Bennett smiled—a wide smile that curled up at the corners of her mouth—a bit like her daughter’s, only more pronounced. There was little else similar between the two. The mother’s brown hair—heavily streaked with gray—had been chopped into an uneven, chin-length bob, as if done in front of the bathroom mirror. Pru thought Mrs. Bennett must’ve been quite attractive when she was young, but time or circumstances had left her with little except the shadow of a pleasant look. There was a vagueness about her eyes, her mouth, her whole expression—almost as if she was out of focus.

“Would you care to sit down? Saskia should be home soon—she’s gone off to get my pills.”

Mrs. Bennett sat on the sofa and Pru perched on the edge of a chair. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by,” she said.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Ms. Parke. Saskia speaks about you and how you’ve come from America because your mum was English.” A blanket lay next to her on the sofa, and as she spoke, she took it up and began folding it over and over and over until it was like an enormous ball of wool in her lap.

“My mother was from Hampshire,” Pru said. “But she moved to Texas when she married.”

Mrs. Bennett held the book Pru had brought and stroked its cover. “I should offer you tea, only I’m so very tired today. I’ve not been well, you see. It comes and goes. I was to the doctor this morning—that’s why Saskia took the day from work.”

Pru began to understand why Saskia had brought her mother to Edinburgh with her instead of leaving her behind in Surrey. “I don’t need tea, really. I only stopped for a moment,” Pru said, with a sudden desire to be far, far from the dark, airless room. “But I do want you to know what a smart, hard worker Saskia is—everyone at the Botanics thinks so. She’s a great help to me on the Menzies project. We haven’t had an easy time of it, you know. She probably explained what happened. It was dreadful, really…” Pru paused. Should she talk about Iain’s death?

“Pru?” Saskia stood in the doorway.

“Hello, Saskia.” Pru jumped up. “I’m sorry to surprise you so, but I thought you might want that Banks book”—Pru gestured to Mrs. Bennett who held the book to her chest—“you said that you wanted to read it soon.”
Such a lame excuse to pry,
Pru thought,
shame on me. It looks like I’m checking up on her, as if I didn’t trust the most perfect assistant to do her job.

Saskia’s eyes flickered to her mother, who remained on the sofa, and back to Pru. “How nice of you to stop,” she said, her voice strained. “Would you like a cup of tea or a coffee?”

Pru shook her head. “No, I must go. Mrs. Bennett, it was lovely to meet you. Saskia, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.” Out the door and down the stairs she went, hurrying to retrace her steps up to Stockbridge and shake the claustrophobic atmosphere of the flat and the fried odor that clung to her hair and jacket. Pru needed to breathe—breathe deeply, and remind herself how grateful she was that her parents’ mental health had been good to the end of their days.

The soft, clean, airy, and bright dress shop enveloped Pru and brought tears to her eyes, but it took only a moment before her timidity returned. All was quiet—not even a yip from Tassie. Pru looked around the partition and cleared her throat. “Madame Fiona?”

The dressmaker came out from the back, something dark blue and sparkly draped over her arms. Tassie marched along beside her mistress on tiny legs, but broke off from the procession, bounced over to Pru, and yipped a greeting.

“Ms. Parke, it is good of you to skip your lunch for a fitting.” Madame Fiona looked at the floor around her. “Would you be so kind as to place Tassie on her bed?” she asked.

Tassie succeeded in licking every one of Pru’s fingers on the short journey from floor to fern stand.

Madame Fiona laid the material out on the worktable. The deep blue twinkled as she stretched it into a long narrow swath that resembled the night sky. Without looking up, she said, “I hope you don’t think I was taking advantage of our business arrangement, Ms. Parke, when I asked you to stop in and meet Sandy.”

“No, not at all. I’m sorry I couldn’t be any help.” Even worse than no help, Pru thought, as a wave of guilt pushed her up against the bare dress form that stood next to her.

“Sandy won’t tell me where he was that day—or the night before—but I have every confidence in my nephew.”

“Of course you do.”

Madame Fiona wagged a finger up and down at Pru. “You may disrobe, now, and I will return in a moment.”

Pru stood in the bare essentials when Madame Fiona came back with an armful of dark blue tulle. “Your bra, Ms. Parke—you’ll need to remove it.”

Pru’s eyes jumped from the Milky Way laid out on the table to the frothy tulle that Madame Fiona began tacking to it. She took off her bra and stood waiting, her arms crossing and uncrossing and crossing again.

“Up on the dais, if you please.” Madame Fiona had shed her familial concern and regained professional control. “Now, Ms. Parke, place one hand on my shoulder for balance and step in here.” The dressmaker swept up the expanse of midnight sky, dragging the tulle along like the tail of a comet, and held it open at Pru’s feet. “The material has some stretch, but still, it is a long way up so we may have to tug a wee bit. Take care the pins.”

A high-pitched giggle escaped Pru’s throat. She stepped into the tube and Madame Fiona climbed up onto the dais and began to pull. “Just relax now, Ms. Parke, it will make this easier.” Madame Fiona’s voice strained as she struggled to get the fabric up to its goal. “This may seem snug, but when you are wearing the proper undergarments, it will
slip
”—yank—“
right
”—tug—“
on!
” Madame Fiona took a huge breath and let it out in a huff. “There, now.”

The dress had made it to just under Pru’s breasts. Madame Fiona now took the stretchy fabric and tucked it around them. “You may turn round, Ms. Parke.”

Pru shuffled her feet inch by inch in a half circle until she faced the mirrors. Looking back at her, a figure—eyes set in pale skin and chest heaving—clad in a twinkly form-fitting gown the color of midnight. She could barely keep from looking over her shoulder to see who it was. The strapless gown clung to her body until, just at the knees, layers and layers of tulle exploded into a deep flounce. A more objective eye might admire how the dress smoothed out her silhouette, setting off her natural curves to fine effect, but objectivity was not to be found. Perfect, Pru thought. The perfect dress. All she needed were the proper accessories—a microphone and a baby grand piano to lean against.

“And will you be wearing your necklace?” Madame Fiona asked.

Pru’s hand flew up to her fan pendant, and her right breast slipped out of the dress.

“Not to worry, Ms. Parke,” the dressmaker said, slipping it back in. “Now, let me see you raise your arms out to the sides.” Pru did so, and both breasts popped out. Madame Fiona popped them back in. “We will, naturally, tape you in on the day.”

Pru whimpered and swallowed hard. She would not be incoherent, as she had been at her first fitting. And she couldn’t make a run for it—she didn’t think she could get out of the dress on her own. “Madame Fiona, I want to thank you for all your work. I’m sure you realize that I need to consider…to take in the full effect of the design.”

Madame Fiona stepped off the dais and offered Pru her hand. Wrapped tight in the dress, Pru’s stride would not allow her to step down—she held on to the top of the dress and hopped off, landing on both feet. “Now, Ms. Parke, we’ve turned our attention to a more sophisticated look for you, but please realize that we can continue to explore other avenues.”

“Of course,” Pru whispered, her throat too dry to make a sound. She hooked her thumbs into the top of the dress and began wiggling it off, a naked, pink butterfly escaping its gaudy chrysalis. Madame Fiona worked at floor level, gathering up the fabric. When she had taken the dress away, Pru threw her clothes on. She had just retrieved her shoes when the tinkle of the bell followed by a yip from Tassie heralded an arrival.

“Fee-Fee?” Sandy called.

“Ms. Parke,” Madame Fiona said from the back room, “are you dressed?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Come through, Sandy.” Sandy stepped just inside the partition as Madame Fiona emerged with tea tray in hand; Pru stood between them.

“Hello, Sandy,” Pru said, trying to make eye contact, seeking a tiny indication that he would forgive her for passing his alibi on to the police.

“Pru,” Sandy said, keeping his eye on his aunt.

“Ms. Parke, have you time for tea?”

Pru glanced at Sandy, who looked at the floor. “No, thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sorry I don’t. I need to get back to the garden. Thanks again. Bye.” She stepped past Sandy, who had turned away to pet Tassie. As the door closed behind her, she heard the comforting sound of clattering teacups.

“I can’t do this, Jo,” Pru said, phone to her ear, as she hurried up Inverleith Row to the east gate.

“Can’t do what?”

“It’s too much—the dress fittings.” Beyond tears, and not even angry, all energy had drained from her body. “If you had seen what she had for me today.”

“Tell me what it looked like.”

Pru had ducked into a newsagent’s to grab a sandwich, and she looked up at the smiling Middle Eastern man wearing a turban, who waited for her to pay. She smiled back and dug for her purse. “No,” she said to Jo. “I can’t.”

“But it was better, wasn’t it? She got away from the shepherdess look?”

“Oh my, yes, she got away from that. Far, far away.” Back out on the pavement, Pru gave Jo the briefest of descriptions.

Pru could’ve sworn Jo stifled a giggle. “Right,” Jo said, “I’ll ring Madame Fiona and we’ll…”

“No, that’s it. I’m finished with fittings.”

“But I want to do this for you. I want to get your wedding dress,” Jo said.

“Yes, and you will get it—but I want no part in the search. You’re good at this, Jo. You bought me the only dress I own. Find something and put it on me a minute before I walk down the aisle. Just don’t ask me to try anything else on. Please—I can’t do it.”

“All right, all right. Now, how are the shoes?”

“Fantastic,” Pru said as she unlocked her office door. “I can walk and everything.”

She had switched on the kettle and torn open her sandwich when her phone rang. “Pru, it’s Tamsin. Do you have time for me to stop in? I’m here at the Botanics.”

“Yes, of course,” Pru said. She dropped teabags into two mugs and shifted papers about on her desk, searching for her wedding to-do list and hoping it hadn’t been the victim of Saskia’s most recent tidying effort. At last she located it in her bag, and was smoothing out the wrinkles just as the detective sergeant arrived.

“I’ve found quite a reasonable baker, and she’s still taking orders for June, although she said she’d soon be booked up completely.” Tamsin handed Pru a business card.

“Thanks, I’ll need that.” Next to “cake” on her list she wrote “Tamsin.”

“Will you have music?” Tamsin asked, taking her tea and settling in the chair. “Or just the organist at the church?”

Strains of Brigadoon tickled Pru’s inner ear, and a vision of Sheena at the keyboard floated into her line of sight. “Well, we don’t have a place for the wedding yet, so we don’t have a…” The answer emerged, fully formed in her mind. “Wait, we have a pianist. She could play wherever we are—perhaps she’d play for the reception, too.” As she spoke, she jotted down “Jo/Cordelia/piano” and sipped her tea.