Free The Bluebonnet Betrayal by Marty Wingate Page B

I suppose I’d better follow. Can you—” She stopped herself. “No, you can’t—DCI French’s dictum.”
    “He’s right. I have no credentials to get onto the grounds, either from the show or from the police. But I’ll be waiting for you when you finish.”
    “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
    “Ring me when they let you go. I’ll be close.”
    —
    They sat with cups of sugary tea in front of them, in a building that would house a champagne bar during the Chelsea Flower Show—now empty of comfort except for a smattering of chairs and a few long tables. The police used the kitchen for questioning and had taken Skippy in first.
    “Ivory,” Pru said, leaning forward. Ivory, at the far end of the table, looked up at her with bloodshot eyes. “Did you see her last night? Or this morning?”
    Ivory shook her head but didn’t speak. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the sniffles from KayAnn and Nell, and the echoing footsteps of a PC who made a circuit of the room every few minutes as if monitoring a classroom during midterms. Rosette stared at the table, occasionally reaching out and patting the younger women’s hands, which prompted one of them to sob, “Oh, Rosette, it’s so
awful
.” Ivory said something to them, and they began a low conversation. Forde occupied a chair in the middle. He clutched his handkerchief, looking a shade of green that reminded Pru of old pickles. At a nearby table, Chiv, Iris, and Teddy huddled together.
    Sweetie, next to Pru, sat shivering in a slinky black trouser suit with a low-cut white blouse. She wore Skippy’s coat over her shoulders and stared at her hands, wadded up in her lap. Pru touched her arm.
    “Are you all right?” she whispered.
    Sweetie nodded. Her eyes were puffy and her eye makeup had run, melting into a raccoon’s mask. “Why did I have to be the one to find her?” she whimpered.
    “You were being efficient—first one on the job site,” Pru said. “You and Skippy.”
    Sweetie cut her eyes at Pru and offered a tiny smile. “I suppose I have to tell the police about that.”
    “I suppose you do.”
    Sweetie’s gaze returned to her lap. “Don’t you sometimes wish you could unsay things?”
    Regrets,
Pru thought.
They can eat you up
. “So you didn’t go to the theater last night?”
    Sweetie didn’t have a chance to answer before the PC came over. “Ma’am,” he said, and Sweetie stood up and followed him.
    Teddy went next, after which the PC asked for Iris. Chiv followed her to the door and engaged the PC in a quiet but heated conversation until DS Chalk—a fireplug of a man with a shaved head—emerged. Iris went in, and Chiv stood outside next to the PC. One by one, the table where Pru sat grew emptier as, post-interview, the Austin women were held at the far end of the room and others were let go. Pru’s number came up last.

“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
Chapter 10
    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