Free Between a Rock and a Hard Place: A Potting Shed Mystery (Potting Shed Mystery series Book 3) by Marty Wingate Page A

caution. She had read about a fuchsia, but couldn’t recall the details, and although Iain’s voice was easy and his manner confidential, as if he shared a secret with her, Pru kept alert for the moment when his words would turn sharp. No sense in putting herself in the line of fire for an insult. And yet, she couldn’t keep from adding—“It’s not the Chilean species, though, is it?”
    Iain raised his eyebrows at her—as close, she thought, as she would get to a compliment. “You’re right, not that one. Take another look and see what you think.”
    “You wouldn’t want to remind me what page it’s on?” Pru asked, but the joke fell flat.
    “From all accounts, Ms. Parke, you are perfectly capable of reading the pages of this journal yourself, and I see…”
    He broke off and cocked his head as if listening. Pru heard a scraping sound overhead and looked up. In one frozen moment Pru saw the huge terra-cotta pot above them teetering over the edge of the catwalk. And then it fell.
    Pru and Iain sprang apart, and Pru collided with the Chinese palm as she jumped out of the way. The pot crashed onto the bench where they had been sitting two seconds ago. The bench collapsed under the weight, cracking wood, bending metal, and shattering terra-cotta.
    The quiet in the next moment reverberated off the glass and metal walls. Pru’s heart pounded in her ears. Iain stood on the far side, and they both stared at the destruction. The pot had broken open, exposing dark soil and the white netted roots of the lemon tree. The tree itself sat askew, and as Pru took a slow, ragged breath to stop her shaking, a lemon dropped off a branch and bounced onto the floor.
    “Ms. Parke?”
    “Yes,” she managed to say. “I’m all right. You?”
    “Fine,” Iain said, but she could see blood on the back of his hand. He noticed, too, and took his handkerchief and blotted it. “A piece of the clay,” he explained as his eyes scanned the catwalk. Pru peered at it, too—it appeared to be vibrating. “Did you see anyone?” Iain asked.
    “What? A person?”
    He didn’t reply but went for the metal stairs that hugged the side of the glasshouse and led to the catwalk. He leapt over the chain with the “Do Not Enter” sign and took the steps two at a time. Pru followed him to the bottom step and stopped.
    “Come up here,” Iain said.
    “Why?”
    “Don’t you want to know what happened?” he asked, returning to his cold ways and looking down at her like a vulture.
    I’m afraid of heights
, she said, but not aloud. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction—and she did want to see. She could do this—she took a deep breath, unhooked the barrier chain, and with both hands holding the right-hand rail, she began to climb.
    With each step, she felt the blood drain from her head. She broke out in a cold sweat as out of the corner of her eye she saw the ground below her—growing ever so distant—tilt and sway, as if she were on the deck of a ship on a rolling sea. The queasiness in her stomach threatened to overwhelm her, but she knew the very act of throwing up would send her toppling over the side and she would crash into pieces just as the terra-cotta pot had.
    “Ms. Parke? Pru? Are you in shock?”
    Was that Iain who spoke? She couldn’t move—her feet were glued to a step and her hands squeezed the rail so hard they’d turned white.
    “I need…some help,” she whispered.
    Iain came down to her. “Let’s go back down,” he said quietly. “Shall I lead the way?”
    Somehow he loosened her hands from the rail. She transferred her death grip to his forearms as he turned her round and led her, backing down the stairs one step at a time. Pru didn’t let go until they stood on solid ground.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, with no energy to go farther. “Thank you.”
    “Sit here,” Iain said, leading her to an ornate bench in the middle of the glasshouse. She sank down as Iain spoke with a worker who had heard the crash