Read Online The Bluebonnet Betrayal by Marty Wingate - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marty Wingate
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woman’s single-mindedness. “Although there’s some lingering problem she wants to talk to me about in the morning. I got the idea it has to do with Roddy MacWeeks, but we’ll see.”
They sat down to their dinner—and to a scratching at the door.
“There you are now, that must be Boris,” Pru said. “Come and meet him.”
—
“We could have lunch together,” Pru said before she walked out the door the next morning. “I’m sure I can take a longer break.”
“Give me a ring when you know,” Christopher replied, sitting at the table over his second cup of tea. “I told Mrs. Miller I’d take Boris out to the Common for a good walk first thing, and after that I’m going round to the station to say hello.”
Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse, Chelsea Borough—that’s what he’d been when they’d first encountered each other. But he had left the Met when they married the year before, and although Pru knew that Christopher loved the countryside and Greenoak, she sometimes wondered if he didn’t miss London and police work just a bit. He’d arrived yesterday in his country clothes—mossy greens and russets—but this morning he wore his DCI “uniform,” a dark blue suit. He was quite appealing in or out of either. Pru smiled to herself—well, perhaps she preferred “out.”
There was the promise of sun—not actual sun, but the cloud cover seemed thin, as if at any moment a sliver of blue sky might muscle its way through—and a sweet scent to the air. Flowering plums, she thought. A week had gone by since Pru had cast her lot in with the ARGS garden at the Chelsea Flower Show, and now, into the second week of buildup, optimism shone brighter than any ray of sunshine. She walked quickly and with purpose down the road from the Tube station, her breath like puffs from a toy locomotive. Perhaps it would even warm up today.
Pru entered through the London gate and walked down Main Avenue—taking her place as one of a stream of crewmembers heading to various sites on the grounds, all wearing their acid-yellow high-vis vests. She glanced round to see if Twyla was among them, and noticed the lorries already beginning to deliver plants. What would they do about plants? Pru fretted, but then remembered that she no longer had to worry about it.
Halfway to the Rock Garden Bank, she heard a high-pitched scream. At first, it blended with the lorries beeping their backup warnings, but it went on so long that people stopped what they were doing and looked round for the source. The scream faded at last, drifting away on the breeze.
Pru looked straight ahead of her, at the ARGS site, and saw Sweetie standing near the trench for the wall. The woman took a huge breath, and another scream began. Pru ran. Sweetie appeared to be collapsing in slow motion, falling gradually to the ground—Pru wouldn’t reach her in time, but it didn’t matter, because a tall figure appeared and caught her in his arms.
“What?” Pru asked, gasping when she reached them. “What’s wrong?”
It was the Aussie, Skippy, who had got to Sweetie first, and he shook his head in bewilderment at Pru while his damsel stirred.
“Sweetie, what is it?”
Sweetie’s face was the color of paste, and her hand shook as she pointed behind Pru to the trench they’d dug for the dry stone wall. Chiv had not done much yet, only laid the footing stones in the bottom and built a short length at the far back. But now a heap of smaller rocks—the ones he called filling stones—had been dumped onto one section of the trench, and piled so high they spilled out over the ground. Sweetie sobbed into Skippy’s shoulder. Pru frowned—first at Sweetie and then at the heap of rocks. She walked the few feet over to look closer.
In the trench, amid the stones, she saw a patch of blue—the color of bluebonnets, the color of the sweatshirts they all wore. Pru’s heart thumped in her chest when she realized something—someone—lay beneath
They sat down to their dinner—and to a scratching at the door.
“There you are now, that must be Boris,” Pru said. “Come and meet him.”
—
“We could have lunch together,” Pru said before she walked out the door the next morning. “I’m sure I can take a longer break.”
“Give me a ring when you know,” Christopher replied, sitting at the table over his second cup of tea. “I told Mrs. Miller I’d take Boris out to the Common for a good walk first thing, and after that I’m going round to the station to say hello.”
Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Pearse, Chelsea Borough—that’s what he’d been when they’d first encountered each other. But he had left the Met when they married the year before, and although Pru knew that Christopher loved the countryside and Greenoak, she sometimes wondered if he didn’t miss London and police work just a bit. He’d arrived yesterday in his country clothes—mossy greens and russets—but this morning he wore his DCI “uniform,” a dark blue suit. He was quite appealing in or out of either. Pru smiled to herself—well, perhaps she preferred “out.”
There was the promise of sun—not actual sun, but the cloud cover seemed thin, as if at any moment a sliver of blue sky might muscle its way through—and a sweet scent to the air. Flowering plums, she thought. A week had gone by since Pru had cast her lot in with the ARGS garden at the Chelsea Flower Show, and now, into the second week of buildup, optimism shone brighter than any ray of sunshine. She walked quickly and with purpose down the road from the Tube station, her breath like puffs from a toy locomotive. Perhaps it would even warm up today.
Pru entered through the London gate and walked down Main Avenue—taking her place as one of a stream of crewmembers heading to various sites on the grounds, all wearing their acid-yellow high-vis vests. She glanced round to see if Twyla was among them, and noticed the lorries already beginning to deliver plants. What would they do about plants? Pru fretted, but then remembered that she no longer had to worry about it.
Halfway to the Rock Garden Bank, she heard a high-pitched scream. At first, it blended with the lorries beeping their backup warnings, but it went on so long that people stopped what they were doing and looked round for the source. The scream faded at last, drifting away on the breeze.
Pru looked straight ahead of her, at the ARGS site, and saw Sweetie standing near the trench for the wall. The woman took a huge breath, and another scream began. Pru ran. Sweetie appeared to be collapsing in slow motion, falling gradually to the ground—Pru wouldn’t reach her in time, but it didn’t matter, because a tall figure appeared and caught her in his arms.
“What?” Pru asked, gasping when she reached them. “What’s wrong?”
It was the Aussie, Skippy, who had got to Sweetie first, and he shook his head in bewilderment at Pru while his damsel stirred.
“Sweetie, what is it?”
Sweetie’s face was the color of paste, and her hand shook as she pointed behind Pru to the trench they’d dug for the dry stone wall. Chiv had not done much yet, only laid the footing stones in the bottom and built a short length at the far back. But now a heap of smaller rocks—the ones he called filling stones—had been dumped onto one section of the trench, and piled so high they spilled out over the ground. Sweetie sobbed into Skippy’s shoulder. Pru frowned—first at Sweetie and then at the heap of rocks. She walked the few feet over to look closer.
In the trench, amid the stones, she saw a patch of blue—the color of bluebonnets, the color of the sweatshirts they all wore. Pru’s heart thumped in her chest when she realized something—someone—lay beneath
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