Free The Bluebonnet Betrayal by Marty Wingate

the heap. At one end, a hand, unmoving, extended from under the rocks, at the other end, the toe of a boot, and between, swirling round the stones—long blond hair, fading to gray.
    “Ambulance!”
Pru screamed.
“Ring the ambulance!”
She dropped to her knees and threw stones off Twyla’s still form, scraping away the smaller rocks, all the time talking to her. “Twyla, it’s Pru. Twyla, be all right, please be all right.”
    She wasn’t all right; Pru knew that but couldn’t admit it. As she scrambled to uncover her, she could see that Twyla lay on her side, with her head turned, facing skyward. Pru could see the bruises at her throat. She gasped as a pair of firm hands clamped onto her shoulder. Chiv.
    It was the last clear moment she had for a good while—Chiv’s weathered face twisted in pain as he looked down on Twyla’s body. His grip on Pru’s shoulder tightened, his head shot up, and he scanned the gathering crowd.
    “Where’s Iris?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Nothing is more frustrating for a gardener than being told what she or he can—and cannot—do, but occasionally and unfortunately, we must abide by the edicts of the powers that be. The rally set for Monday to protest construction on a site of the rare gravelbar brickellbush has had to be called off on the ‘advice’ of the Austin City Police. This isn’t over.”
    Alert from
Austin Rocks!
the e-newsletter of the Austin Rock Garden Society
Chapter 9
    Pru sat on a stack of lumber with KayAnn and Nell on either side, an arm round each. Both sobbed uncontrollably. “God’s punishing me,” one of them said, “because of what I said about her.” Up until that moment, Pru had wanted to comfort the women, who had collapsed when they’d caught sight of the situation, but at that statement she felt like giving both of them a good shake.
    “Ivory,” she said, nodding to the pair. Ivory took her place, and Pru stood, felt woozy, and put her hand out against the shed as she watched more uniforms arrive. How much time had passed since she’d heard Sweetie scream—a half hour? More?
    The security guards had made it to the scene first and called for help, pushing people back. They had herded Pru and the other ARGS crewmembers within the garden space, but at the opposite end of the site from where Twyla’s body lay. The wail of sirens grew from nothing until they filled the air just as Ivory and Rosette arrived. Rosette had cried out and dropped to her knees and Ivory had pulled her away. KayAnn and Nell had followed. Where had Chiv gone? Before she could wonder, he appeared again with Iris and Teddy, just as the uniformed police constables rushed in with the EMTs. What good they would do was anybody’s guess.
    PCs wrapped blue-and-white police tape round the garden and kept people well away. Pru noticed Forde at the back of the crowd, moving from side to side, trying to look over shoulders. He wore his ARGS sweatshirt and when he pushed through and spoke with the PCs, they allowed him access.
    Pru went to him before he could reach the trench, where police busied themselves taking photos. One stood looking up at the digger, its empty bucket raised high.
    “Forde.” She grabbed hold of his arm. “I’m sorry—there’s been a terrible…” Accident? No, it certainly wasn’t an accident. “It’s Twyla. She’s dead.”
    Forde’s face flushed and he pushed up closer to the trench. A PC caught him, but not before he saw Twyla. They had uncovered her, rock by rock, but her body—stretched along the trench as if she had been swimming up a two-foot-deep dry streambed—had not been moved. Forde’s breathing became labored, and when Pru heard him retch, she took hold of his arms, hurried him off behind the shed, and left him to it.
    She returned to find more police—two men in suits squatting down over the trench and talking with a woman in blue paper coveralls and gloves. When the woman lifted Twyla’s arm and pointed something out,