“Our annual English tea will be held in April—this is always a treat for everyone. New members, ask your mentor about the dress code.”
New Members’ Corner, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Pru accepted a fresh, hot cup of tea. More sugar—the police were making sure no one keeled over from shock. DCI French and DS Chalk sat across a metal counter in the middle of the room—the walls lined with cookers and two enormous refrigerators. The police had notepads out and a phone set to record. Pru told her story, beginning with meeting Twyla at the garden the evening before. Only the evening before—it seemed so long ago now.
“We arranged to meet here this morning. I went home. As I was walking in this morning, I heard Sweetie scream.”
“If you did not know Ms. Woodford, how did you become involved in the club’s project?”
French said the word as if the women had decided to build a replica of the Alamo out of Popsicle sticks. Pru drew a breath to correct him, exhaled when she realized he wouldn’t care, and inhaled again. This was for Twyla.
“The Chelsea Flower Show is internationally acknowledged as the most important venue for gardeners and designers, and the very fact that the Austin Rock Garden Society was awarded the opportunity to create a display that would bring an important ecological landscape to the forefront means that—”
“Fine, Ms. Parke,” French cut in. “How is it that you became involved in this venture?”
“Oh. I worked with Ivory ages ago at the Dallas Arboretum, and Twyla had read about me”—Pru felt herself creep close to a part of her life she would rather not mention to the DCI—“when I restored a garden in Sussex. They were delayed and needed someone here at the start of buildup.”
DS Chalk held his pencil poised over his notepad as if he expected her to say more. She didn’t.
“Was Ms. Woodford having difficulties with someone?” French asked, pressing her. “Someone in the society? Another crewmember?”
“I met her only yesterday,” Pru said.
“And she didn’t discuss any problems with you?”
Pru hesitated. French waited.
“Well, of course she was concerned about the garden—she wanted it to be its best. She had a clear vision, and I don’t believe it’s unreasonable to ask everyone to pitch in and…”
“Who, Ms. Parke?”
“This was her design—at least, I believe it was. But she wasn’t allowed to put her name to it.” Pru felt as if she were throwing Roddy to the lions, but wasn’t that what Twyla had said? “I’m sure there’s a great deal of politics involved.”
DCI French flipped his notebook closed, switched off the recording, and nodded to Chalk, who left the room.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Parke.”
She ignored the dismissal. “Did the rocks kill her?”
“We won’t know that until the postmortem is complete.”
“There were marks at her throat,” Pru said, barely able to speak the words. “Bruises.”
“Did you interfere with the crime scene?”
“Interfere?” There, now she’d found her voice. “If by ‘interfere’ you mean did I hope she was alive and so quickly removed as many stones as possible until I realized she was dead, then yes, I interfered.” Pru crossed her arms tightly in front of her.
The DCI drummed his pen on the table as he looked off into space. “Initial findings suggest she was dead before the rocks came down on her—she was strangled.”
Pru’s hand flew to her throat. She could feel the fingers closing in, squeezing, lights flashing in front of her eyes…
She took a ragged breath and matched his even tone. “Thank you for telling me.”
He handed over a card with his particulars. “We’ll be in touch.”
Pru returned to the larger room, now empty. DS Chalk must have gathered up the ARGS women for the journey to their digs on Lamont Road. Fine, let him be mother hen for a while. Pru made for the door just as it flew open.
Roddy stood with the light behind him, hands braced against the doorjamb as if to steady himself. His face was flushed, his glasses askew and his hair damp. The cuffs of his plaid shirt were unbuttoned and they flapped as he flung his arm out.
“Who did this to her?” he shouted. His eyes landed on Pru and in a split second he lunged, grabbing hold of her coat and shaking her. “Who would dare touch her?” he screamed in her face, spittle flying. She caught a whiff of gin.
Before Pru had a chance to react, three PCs jumped him and pulled him off. Roddy slumped like a rag doll and wept loudly.
“Roddy MacWeeks?” French’s voice—loud and sharp—was as good as a slap in the face.
“Yes?” Roddy replied, a little boy caught by his schoolmaster.
“In here, please.” Pru watched the PCs escort Roddy into the interview room. “Are you all right, Ms. Parke?” French called across the room.
She nodded, straightening her coat—she was too out of breath to reply. Once French had shut the door, she leaned up against the wall until she’d regained her composure.
And still she couldn’t get out the door. A tall man with thinning, chestnut hair ran straight into her. Pru backed off, and he stepped inside, brushing off his lapels.
“Are you Pru Parke?” He frowned at her, his face one of angles—high cheekbones and a sharp chin.
Before she could answer, a PC followed him in and said, “This way please, sir.”
“Sorry,” the man said to Pru as he let himself be led away.
She stepped out and the door closed behind her. Pru stood on the front step and surveyed the hospital grounds. Activity had returned to its normal level—off to her left along the Rock Garden Bank even the Aussies had got back to it. It made the contrast with the ARGS site—empty except for a couple of uniforms and wrapped as it was in blue-and-white tape—stand out even further. Pru didn’t move any closer, but she could tell from the lack of police personnel that they had taken Twyla’s body away. She called Christopher, and he answered at the first ring.
“I’ve been let go,” she told him. “I’ll come back to the flat.”
“No, meet me at Chelsea Old Church,” he said. “At the end of Cheyne Walk.”
He had been waiting nearby—the church was only fifteen minutes away down the Embankment. The sun shone high and bright, and it had turned warm—some might think it a fine spring day for a walk.
She headed for the Bull Ring gate, almost reaching it when she thought she heard Twyla’s voice behind her.
“Pru.”
She whipped round, her heart in her throat, and found Chiv.
“Pru,” he repeated.
“Yes?” She put her hand on her forehead and felt beads of sweat.
He had his hands stuck in the pockets of his denims and he still wore his ARGS sweatshirt. His face was cast in shadow as if he carried his own cloud just over his head. “I’m going to talk with Nottle,” he said. “I don’t know what he’ll say. But if they’ll let us—the police, too—I want to continue.”
“Good.” They didn’t speak for a moment, then Pru asked, “You did know her, didn’t you? Before all this?”
Chiv looked away. “Yeah. But it doesn’t matter now.”
“How is Teddy? Iris?”
He shrugged. “You?”
“I’m…” She nodded. How easy it was to slip into Chiv’s conversation style, where a word here and gesture there could carry the topic. “When they let me go, I saw someone.” She waved toward where they’d been questioned. “The police were taking him in. He wore a suit.”
Chiv cast a glance over his shoulder. “Damien.”
Damien—supplier of the large house on Lamont Road. “He’s with GlobalSynergy—the company buying Forde out?”
“Yeah, he’s with Global-bleeding-Synergy” was Chiv’s reply, like a quiet growl. “Damien Woodford—he’s Twyla’s ex.”