The Bluebonnet Betrayal (26 page)

“Pearse—yes, Inspector French mentioned you were on the case,” Damien said. “Thank you.”

“Did you tell French what you'd been up to?” Pru asked Christopher later as they made their way out of the hospital to the waiting panda car.

“I told him I'd been…keeping an eye on things. He didn't ask for details.”

“Inspector Pearse,” she said, “you are a sly one.”

“…and in conclusion, remember we are each of us ambassadors for good gardening. Now get out there and tell the world—Austin Rocks!”

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

Early the next morning, Pru heard Christopher on the phone. She hoped it was nothing bad—worse, that is. She would ask him when he walked back into the bedroom, but as she waited, snug under the duvet with her wrapped wrist propped on an extra pillow, she drifted off again into a light dream in which she sat in the backseat of her parents' old green Ford Galaxy as they rumbled along a bumpy back road in Texas in search of bluebonnets. When the car reached the top of a rise in the hill country, they saw below them that the ground had turned blue—the blue of a lake, the blue of the sky—with ribbons of tickseed, blanketflower, and paintbrush swirled throughout. She gazed out the car window and then turned to her backseat companion, Christopher, and said, “Isn't it beautiful?”

An aroma teased Pru's nose—a scent of dark coffee and a sweet smell of egg and crust. She opened her eyes and on the bedside table sat a cappuccino—its foam peeking above the rim of the takeaway cup—and a Portuguese custard tart.

Upon arrival at their flat the night before—about two o'clock in the morning, as she recalled—the desire for food and drink had left her. She had taken ibuprofen and a bath, and gone straight to bed. But now, now she could eat—except surely there was no time for that?

She pushed herself up with her good hand. “This is so lovely,” she said to Christopher, who sat on the edge of the bed. “Thank you. But I told Chiv I would be there early—I told Ivory, too.” She took the coffee in her good hand and breathed greedily before taking a sip. She could allow herself coffee, couldn't she?

“I spoke to them both—they understand you need the rest and they know you'll be there soon,” Christopher said.

“Ivory—did you tell her who you were?”

“I did, and she laughed. She said wasn't that the best sort of affair to have. What did she mean by that?”

“She thought Kit and I had something going,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at him.

Christopher rested his hand on her thigh. “Well, she was right, wasn't she?”

The cab dropped Pru and Christopher at the Bull Ring gate at midday, where they showed their work passes and entered. They pulled on their high-vis vests—a token health and safety precaution now that all the gardens were finished, or almost. The Chelsea Flower Show grounds, although still busy, had acquired an air of polishing, just sorting out those last few details. The Great Pavilion stood before them. Not the looming alien form Pru had imagined the night before, for now it bustled with high nerves and good fun as the nursery stalls set up. She caught a glimpse of a mass of clematis in full bloom, cascading down a pyramid, terraced rows of roses, and walls lined with violas, auriculas, foxgloves, and delphinium. Lupine, too—but the tall pillars of color for gardens, not Texas bluebonnets. No bluebonnets in sight. Pru sighed.

She took Christopher's hand, seeking an infusion of courage. They turned right and her heart dropped—dead ahead at a hundred yards, Chiv stood alone at the edge of desolation. Yes, she'd seen the damage already, but that had been in the middle of the night, and she'd been exhausted and hurt and mostly happy to be alive. Now the harsh light of day accentuated not only the wall, which looked as if a bomb had gone off, but also the emptiness of the space and the sense of finality.

Chiv turned to her as they approached. His face revealed nothing, and Pru admired his inner strength. He touched her wrapped wrist and said, “You didn't use that on him, did you?”

She smiled. “No, that was this one,” she said, holding up her right hand, bruised knuckles still evident. She glanced up at Christopher. “Look, Chiv, I need to explain why—”

Chiv shook his head. “No need. Kit here explained it all. And good thing, too, you had him keeping an eye out.”

Pru looked up at her husband, happy to get over that hurdle and grateful that Chiv took it so well. After all, Kit had been a valuable member of the crew. But now what did that matter? For just past Christopher's shoulder and across the roadway Pru saw Arthur Nottle, clipboard in hand, poised to destroy her last iota of hope.

Taking a deep breath and wiping an errant tear off her cheek, she inhaled quickly and exhaled in a huff. Christopher put his arm round her but didn't speak. “Right, well, better get to it,” she said, pulling her shoulders back and making straight for the assistant show director.

“Ah, Ms. Parke,” Nottle said. “Are you all right? The police have informed me of last night's events. I am so dreadfully sorry for what you went through.”

Pru had expected businesslike efficiency, not heartfelt concern, and for a moment the tears returned to her eyes. She blinked hard.

“Thank you, Mr. Nottle. I'm doing fine. This”—a wave of her wrist—“is nothing, really, compared with Rosette. But she'll be all right, too. And now that the police have Forde, we are truly finished with it. That is, I mean, the problems we encountered are finished. So, about the garden.”

What about the garden? She held back, unwilling to chuck it all in. But what was she to say to him?
Don't worry—Chiv, Kit, and I will dig in and, given another month or so, I'm sure we can get it built?
A nervous giggle threatened.

“Yes, it's a pity, isn't it?” Nottle asked, first nodding and then shaking his head. “But you certainly tried your best under the circumstances. We will, naturally, need to get our own crew in here and clear out the entire area so that—”

“You'll keep your hands off it!” Chiv roared as he advanced on Nottle from across the roadway. “This is our garden.”

Nottle looked puzzled. “Garden? It's a shambles, Mr. Chiverton. You've missed it—there's nothing else you can do, unless you hope to pass this off as some sort of druid ruin that extraterrestrials transported to Texas and back again. I've been as patient as I possibly could be. You must realize that it's over. It's finished.”

“Three days,” Pru said, thrilled that Chiv wanted to take a stand. “Three days until judging Sunday morning—you've got to allow us that.”

“And what do we do if you fail in your impossible dream, Ms. Parke? Throw a giant tarpaulin over the entire thing and hope that the public doesn't think it's an enormous coat-check marquee?”

“No,” Pru fired back. “No. You cannot do this. We have a contract—we signed an agreement. Chiv?” She had signed no agreement, but now a hot energy coursed through her veins and she wouldn't give up without a fight, even if she had to stay awake for the next seventy-two hours and move each stone with her own two hands. One hand.

“What do you think the three of you can do?”

“Three?” Christopher asked. “You had better count again.”

Pru's heart fluttered at the teasing note in his voice. She cut her eyes at him. He smiled and pointed his chin to the end of Main Avenue, where Ivory and Sweetie waved at them. Nottle looked over his shoulder, then back at Pru. “Yes, admirable, but as the sum total of your crew is now, what—five?—you will not possibly be able to—”

“You've miscounted, Nottle,” Chiv interrupted, and grinned.

Pru's eyes darted from Chiv to Christopher and saw they shared some secret. She could stand it no longer, and hurried over to the women, who each gave her a big—but careful—hug.

“Your Christopher,” Sweetie began.

“Oh listen, about that,” Pru said quickly, “it was only because—”

“No, never you mind, honey,” Ivory cut in.

“He called us this morning,” Sweetie continued, her eyes shining. “We had a talk and—we found some extra help to fix things up.”

That was when Pru noticed Skippy coming up behind Sweetie. And behind him—it looked like a parade, as a dozen or more of the Aussies marched down Main Avenue toward them.

“Idle hands,” Skippy said to Pru, “and so we thought we might pitch in.”

Pru, unable to speak, hugged the women again. She glanced over and saw Chiv look at Nottle, who shook his head and shrugged.

Christopher walked up and extended a hand to Skippy, who shook it and asked, “Owyargone?”

“I'm well, Sergeant, and you?” Christopher responded.

“You what?” Pru asked Skippy.

“Senior Sergeant Woolverton, New South Wales,” Christopher said. “So I learned this morning.”

“On holiday at the Chelsea Flower Show,” Skippy added.

The Aussies spilled onto the site just as two delivery lorries came backing down from the Chelsea Bridge gate. Here they were, the flowers. Pru frowned. The last and most important piece of the landscape. After the night before, after what had happened to her—and more so to Rosette and especially to Twyla—it didn't seem fair that they would be showcasing Roddy's precious
Nigella damascena,
love-in-a-mist—blue flowers but the wrong blue and the wrong flowers. Others caught sight of the lorries, and all nearby activity ceased. Chiv scanned the grounds until he saw Pru and jerked his head to call her closer. When Teddy and friend hopped out of the cabs, the crowd gathered round as if waiting for the lorries to disgorge a load of clowns.

Chiv went to the back gate of the closer lorry, unlatched it, and gave it a push. As it rolled up, everyone leaned forward and collectively, as if on cue, drew a sharp breath. The inside of the lorry was lined with shelves and filling all the shelves were flats and flats of plants. Green—they saw lots of green, but some of the plants had already started to bloom, and so along with the green, they saw blue—the blue of a lake, the blue of a sky. Bluebonnets.

For one moment, the world stood still. And then Pru heard the strains of a familiar tune. She looked round until she spotted Ivory, grinning widely as she started in on the old song “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” Soon the other Austin women joined her—Pru joined in, too—and when it came to the empty four-beat measure, they filled in—
clap, clap, clap, clap
. Their voices rose and spread on the spring air until the people stocking souvenirs, trowels, hats, and Wellies at the stalls all turned and smiled. And on the second go-round, when it came to the empty four-beat measure, the women reached up to the side of the truck and used it as their percussion, the sound echoing across the Chelsea Flower Show grounds.
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

“Members please note: after the last meeting of the year, we will adjourn to the bar at the Driskill.”

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

Pru, banned from physical work on the garden repair, applied herself to other tasks. She rang Roddy MacWeeks and told him what had happened. Roddy became quite emotional on the phone and talked about Twyla giving her life for her beloved Texas hill country. Pru took that opportunity to tell him about the bluebonnets and that she would be rewriting the leaflets. And oh, by the way, as his changes never made it to the official Chelsea program—according to Arthur Nottle—the ARGS garden remained “More Than Rock and Stone.” Pru ended the conversation as soon as possible.

She spent every available moment of the next three days on the grounds itching to lay a stone or spread a shovelful of mulch. She did sneak in at one point—really, there were so many people working no one would've noticed that she started in on the wall, but the stone, heavy and unwieldy, slipped out of her hand, narrowly missing her toes. Her wrist took up that throbbing pain again, and so she went back to watching from the sidelines and rewriting the leaflet. Typing one-handed was no easy task in itself.

The police tape came down for easier access. Yet another liner had to be ordered—those police were hard on water features. “Third time's the charm,” Pru said to Chiv, who replied, “Fifth.” At least the metal grating escaped damage.

Chiv brought in the antique gas pump—Pru could see the red star of the Texaco sign on it from halfway up Main Avenue—and he allowed the Aussies to have at the wall, while he danced up and down the forty-foot serpentine length advising, pointing, adjusting. Christopher and a couple of others manhandled the shed, putting it back on its foundation.

Sweetie and Skippy (Ima Jean and Melursh, Pru remembered) worked at the back of the site with several others, setting the hedgerow to rights. KayAnn and Nell had mostly given up on their work attire and now wore floral-patterned Wellies with their star-patterned tights and sateen short shorts and crocheted cardigans that hugged their bums. They stood at the edge of the pond—the reservoir for the spring—holding the grate between them as three fellows snugged the liner in and replaced the stones that held down the edge.

“Who are they?” Pru asked Chiv.

“They're crew from Prince Harry's garden—courtesy of KayAnn and Nell. I don't know how they managed it, and I'm not asking.”

Pru surveyed press day at the Chelsea Flower Show from one of the temporary chairs set at the back of the garden. Journalists and photographers from newspapers and from online sites that covered news, gardens, fashion, design, and art strolled up and down as designers strutted and contractors sighed with relief. Actors from television and film all became gardeners on press day at Chelsea, telling stories for the cameras of how they had always helped their dear mother plant carrots and still go home every spring to lend a hand. And perhaps every word of it was true, although Pru would like to get a look at those cuticles to verify.

She pulled at the thin, three-quarter-sleeve cardigan she wore—a size smaller than she would've chosen for herself, but she had allowed KayAnn and Nell to shop for her. She wore the cardy over, but in no way actually covering, a rose-red summer frock with a deep neckline. Espadrilles on her feet, but not really high-heeled ones. Her outfit for the day was completed by her left wrist, still wrapped, and a bruise on her forehead. At least those on her back were covered. But, oh well, could be worse. Could be raining.

“More Than Rock and Stone” couldn't have looked better. The bluebonnets had responded to the continued warm spring weather—more and more were opening and would throughout show week. Tickseed, blanketflower, paintbrush, all accounted for. The wall looked as if it had been there a hundred years and the shed that doubled as the façade of the gas station still listed a bit, but that only added to its charm.

She sipped a glass of champagne and basked in the sunshine. She'd had her first glass while the judging panel asked Roddy questions about the garden. She had stood across the roadway—handlers acted as if the judges were rock stars, keeping everyone far enough away so that no one could eavesdrop on the proceedings.

Pru wasn't above seeking some last-minute reassurance from Roddy, and had pulled him aside before he met with the panel. “Remember, Roddy,” she had said, “I saved your life; you said it yourself, you
owe
me.”

No need to worry—Roddy was in a merry and magnanimous mood, having only just heard from Singapore that his design contract had been reaffirmed. “I owe it all to you—and Twyla,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the judges and their handlers headed for “Welcome to Oz,” and Roddy gave Pru a thumbs-up before strolling off to be near the BBC cameras, just in case.

Everyone concerned breathed a sigh of relief—and put off worrying about the outcome of judging, which wouldn't be announced until the following morning. Pru didn't care what they got, although she hoped for a good showing for Chiv's sake.

With the judging out of the way, Pru had accepted her second glass of champagne. And so that was why she had the nerve to boss Damien Woodford around. He stood nearby and had been watching Rosette, who sat in her wheelchair—no weight on that ankle for a month—talking with Ivory.

“Rosette says she'll be leaving for Texas by the end of the week,” Pru said.

“Yes,” Damien said, frowning.

“Have you told her you want her to stay?”

“Tell her—”

“Please, don't even try to deny it and don't pull this ‘in-law' business—you aren't related. I think you'd better speak up.” Damien didn't move, but his gaze shifted from Pru to Rosette. “Go on,” Pru said. “Shoo.”

Pru waved at her brother, Simon, his wife, Polly, next to him as they strolled through the crowd. She noticed Chiv, wearing cream-colored linen trousers, a red-striped blazer, and—wait for it—a boater, chatting in an uncharacteristically animated fashion with Arthur Nottle.
There's a pair,
Pru thought. Iris had returned to Hereford—Pru wondered how much longer that partnership would last. Far up Main Avenue, she could see KayAnn and Nell—they wore summer frocks, too, but both their hems and their espadrilles were much higher than Pru's. It looked as if Nell was talking to a tall, good-looking man with reddish-blond hair. Pru squinted—it couldn't be. Could it?

Christopher arrived with a plate of food. No striped blazer and boater for him, but he'd managed to come up with a jacket a shade of green that reminded her of new beech leaves. And it brought out green flecks in his brown eyes that she'd never seen before. It suited him, and together, she decided, they looked a bit like a rose garden. He gave her a kiss and offered her the plate.

“Oh, lovely, thanks.” But Pru had only one working hand, and at that moment it held a glass of champagne.

“Shall I take that for you?” Christopher asked.

“No, look now.” Pru slid the slender stem of champagne between two immobilized fingers on her left hand. “Sorted—my own glass holder.” She popped a small savory pastry in her mouth—mmm, something with cheese and a bit of heat. Quite good. When she had swallowed, she asked, “Will you sit with me?”

“I will. Let me open that next bottle of champagne, shall I?”

“Yes, please.” She finished off her glass and handed it over. Christopher moved off to the tub of ice and champagne they were sharing with “Welcome to Oz.”

Pru sat alone, enjoying the people, the color, the gardens. She smiled. After a moment, she said, “Can you believe it? Here we are at the Chelsea Flower Show.”

“Yes,”
Twyla answered.
“Isn't it glorious?”