“Although Lupinus texensis is only one of several species of lupines that are native to Texas, it is the bluebonnet of our hearts.”
The President Speaks, from Austin Rocks! the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
At first, neither moved. “Do you think it’s all right if we touch it?” Rosette asked. “What about fingerprints?”
“Only Twyla’s—if Forde had found this, he wouldn’t’ve left it here.”
Pru reached for it, but flinched as a raucous squawking erupted from the plane trees—the parakeets, getting ready to roost for the night. She scanned the green canopy and shrubs below, half afraid she’d see a flash of blue. Rosette smiled, but a cold sweat broke out on Pru’s arm as she took and pulled open the plastic bag.
“Look, we should probably tell the police now,” Pru said.
“You’ve already told Christopher,” Rosette pointed out. “It isn’t as if we’re stealing it—but I’m going to take a look before anybody else gets his hands on it.” She snatched the flash drive and went back in the shed.
Pru followed and watched as Rosette retrieved her laptop, inserted the drive, and opened it. A long list of files appeared on the screen.
“It looks like she’s kept all their email correspondence—and here are his papers and proposals, I think.”
They dropped their bags in a corner and settled on the floor of the shed. Pru pulled the door closed. She’d glanced at the time—the grounds must be closing soon, and she wanted to avoid any security detail sweeping through to make sure everyone had vacated. She and Rosette would vacate, of course they would—but the temptation to see what evidence they had and get answers to their many questions was too much for either of them to resist.
The computer screen offered the only light they needed. Rosette scanned Forde’s research and gave Pru an annotated version as she went—it appeared sound, she said, but dangerous, and she pointed out he hadn’t actually carried through on the gene splicing, it was only theory. They read the business proposal from Forde’s company, BlueGreen Enterprises—the proposal Damien had yet to see; invertase suppression was mentioned, but not its consequences. Rosette noted that the engineered bluebonnets would not be any “penny-a-pack” seeds, but quite pricey.
They looked through the email exchange. It started so well—Twyla, happy to help a former student, and Forde, proud that his teacher would consider him worthy of even a mention to Damien Woodford, whose family owned such a prominent, international company. Plans for the Chelsea garden, a recommendation to GlobalSynergy. After that, once Twyla had seen his research premise, she had started to ask questions about the process and its effect on the landscape. And Forde had begun to sidestep the issue.
“Look,” Rosette said. It was an email from Twyla dated the day before she died.
Dear Forde,
You have a great capacity for science—I knew that the first day you sat down in my chemistry class. It was a delight to teach you. And to watch as you progressed by leaps and bounds in your knowledge. But what I didn’t teach you—and I fault myself for this—is the responsibility that comes with great ability. We should never do something just because we can or only for gain if it in any way harms others—there must be some accounting. You say that your process will result in higher biofuel production; that’s an admirable goal. But you have not weighed this goal against the inevitable effects. And you have assumed too much if you think that you will get rich by selling the rights to a process if that process would destroy an ecosystem. I want you to think of the ramifications of starving entire populations of pollinating insects. Without those pollinators, other native flora would not set fruit and seed. This would affect the populations of birds and other animals. It would cause a further decline in native trees and shrubs, which would in turn put an entire watershed at risk. This is what you need to think about—the degradation of a vast landscape. The goal is not to leave BlueGreen and GlobalSynergy the sole source of the patented seed and so make billions—the goal is to maintain a livable earth.
I arrive in England tomorrow. We’ll meet and talk—until then, I won’t mention this to Damien or anyone else. But you must ’fess up. If you don’t tell Damien, I will. It’s your decision.
Best regards,
Twyla
“She was always too trusting.” Rosette’s voice was choked with tears. “She would never have seen him for the little money-grubbing murderer he is.”
Pru put an arm around Rosette while wiping her own tears away with the back of a hand. “But it was just her way, wasn’t it—to think the best of everyone?”
“Damien would never have agreed to buy that company,” Rosette said, blowing her nose on her hanky.
“Of course he wouldn’t’ve!”
“She kept this copy of Forde’s work and their correspondence for insurance. If he’d agreed to back off, she never would’ve told what he wanted to do. He will pay for what he’s done.”
Pru nodded but took the unwelcome role of the voice of reason. “Remember, Rosette,” she said quietly, “I know this looks really bad, but we still don’t know for sure that it was Forde who killed Twyla.”
Rosette’s eyes burned with a fervor. “I know.”
So do I—I feel it. “All right, look—let’s go back to the house and I’ll phone Christopher. No need for that deception any longer. And I’ll call French, too.” Rosette closed her laptop, and they were in the dark. “How long have we been in here? I hadn’t realized the time. I’ll go find one of the security guys—they’ll have to unlock the gates for us. With my luck, Arthur Nottle will be lurking about and give me a talking-to for being on-site after hours. Do you want to come along?”
“No, I’ll wait here—you come back and get me.” Rosette opened her laptop again to Twyla’s last letter.
“She learned all that from you, Rosette. The importance of the hill country.”
“Didn’t she do a good job explaining it? Why didn’t he listen?”
Twilight when Pru walked out of the shed—they must’ve been reading through Twyla’s proof for nearly two hours. A breeze touched her face as she lifted it to the sky—it was the gloaming, that time when the sun had gone down but before the sky was completely dark. The glow from Rosette’s computer screen escaped from the shed, and so Pru pushed the door closed and took a deep breath of the evening air—and sneezed. The plane trees, still at work.
They had done it—found him out. Twyla could rest now, be at peace. It was how Pru felt, peaceful. In the light of a city that’s never completely dark, she walked over to the Bull Ring gate—the press caravan looked closed up and no one stood to attention at the locked wrought-iron entrance. This wasn’t Buckingham Palace, after all. Pru walked farther down the roadway—security lights were set at corners, but much of the grounds were dimming quickly as twilight approached. There must be security people, but she saw no one and thought perhaps they were on the far side of where she wanted them. She retraced her steps but stopped at the Great Pavilion, its ghostly white form looming out of the darkness, eerie and beautiful like a giant alien that had landed lightly on earth. Had move-in started for the nurseries? She walked to the great wide entry and gazed into the darkness—she could sniff out the green growth and thought she caught a scent of tea roses.
Pru smiled at their predicament. Fancy getting locked in at the Chelsea Flower Show—it would be a gardener’s dream. And it’s a lovely time of day to be here, Pru thought—the show administration should consider offering late-evening tours. They could hold candlelight dinners and dancing down in Ranelagh Gardens near the bandstand. What a lovely—
The sound of a wooden door slamming in the distance brought her back to the moment. No dreaming now, she needed to find a security patrol or they would have to call someone. Did she have Arthur Nottle’s number in her phone? Ha—wouldn’t he love getting that call? She would stop off and collect Rosette and they’d go back up to the London gate. Surely someone would be there to let them out.
She circled round to the back of the shed—no light escaped from under the door.
“Rosette?” Pru called as she pulled it open. Dark within.
No Rosette. Perhaps she had misunderstood—she thought she was to meet Pru at the London gate. Yes, that must be it. Pru took a step in to retrieve her bag and in doing so, kicked some small object across the floor. She dropped to her knees and felt round, coming up with one of her spare hair clips. Her hand made a wider sweep; other small objects went skittering. She laid her hand on something soft—leather. Her little purse; she could feel the coins inside. Only then did it occur to her that the contents of her vast canvas bag were strewn across the floor. “Rosette?” she called louder, her voice in her throat.
A cry came from outside. Pru flew out of the shed and stopped, hand on the door, and strained to hear. A fox? London foxes screeched like a person being torn limb from limb—it was a disconcerting sound to hear in the night. It might be a fox, she told herself. The next cry was muffled, but Pru knew the direction—it came from down in Ranelagh Gardens—and she knew a fox would never call out her name.