Regencyland
The Bristle Park Murders
Ellie Emily
Copyright © 2017 by Ellie Emily
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
Introduction
Elizabeth Shea has one goal: be promoted to Series Crimes with the Sacramento Police Department. At twenty-five, she’s the youngest detective in her department’s history—a position she’s lived for—but instead of advancement she’s relegated to the “binky squad.”
When a murder case is up for grabs, Shea thinks everything’s about to change. Instead of getting the high-profile case, she’s assigned babysitting detail for a Hollywood star in a theme vacation destination called Regencyland.
Despite being frustrated with her boss, her empire-waist dress, her lack of regency knowledge, and being unarmed, Shea’s determined to do her best.
Things are going fine until one of the male actors gets under her skin, she starts to fall for another actor in a cravat, and she discovers the woman in her care really is in danger.
With her charge’s life, her career, and her heart at stake, Shea will have to be on her guard 24/7 to get the happy ending she hopes for and discover who is behind the Bristle Park murders.
For Erin.
Thank you for being my biggest fan and cheerleader. You don’t know how much your encouragement has helped me.
And for Mom.
I’m so proud of you. Sorry I couldn’t get this published for your birthday.
Happy birthday, Dad.
Chapter One
Detective Elizabeth Shea and her partner, Ethan Lee, sat in front of their boss’s metal desk. A large box fan whirred away in the corner, but did nothing to cool the room. The blinking of a red light on Brown’s desk phone pulled her attention. To Shea, that light was a warning: Stop. Don’t go any farther. Danger ahead.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Sergeant Brown slammed a file drawer, gathered papers together, and placed them in a manila folder. His face was a little redder than normal, nearly matching the red light.
Shea stopped herself from grinding her teeth. “Everything all right, boss?”
He didn’t look up from his papers; a streak of light ran down the center of his bald head from the fluorescent overheads. “Brian Peltier was killed in his hotel room last night, not twenty minutes from our front doors. I’ve been on the phone with my supervisors, the LAPD, and the FBI all morning.”
Lee leaned forward on his knees. “Brian Peltier? The founder of the multi-million dollar Lock Studios?”
Shea had never heard of the man, but she was pretty sure she’d seen a Lock Studio production. They were the studio with the little boy fishing from the moon… or maybe that was a different one. It’d been awhile since she’d gone to a movie. Like two years.
“Emphasis on multi-million.” Brown closed the file and interlaced his fingers over it. “His status is causing major issues with both the LAPD and FBI.”
Shea shook her head. “If he died here, then the LAPD has no claim and if the FBI wanted the case—”
“He witnessed a brutal murder a few months ago by a hitman named Vincent Faulkner. It’s believed Faulkner’s responsible for over forty deaths. The FBI has been trying to get evidence enough to put him away for years, but the man’s record is squeaky clean. The LAPD and FBI were working together to put Brian Peltier in witness protection,” Brown said. “Given that he somehow died in our city, even though he should’ve been in witness protection in LA, we have the case. For now.”
Fighting the urge to reach for her crucifix, Shea asked, “Who’s taking lead?”
For months she and Lee had been asking to be moved to the Serious Crimes Unit. Instead, they’d been given drug busts, fraud cases, embezzlement, and whatever else the rest the guys didn’t want. The curse of being the “binky squad.” That nickname was given to them by all the other detectives who were much older than Shea’s twenty-five and Lee’s twenty-eight years. Shea didn’t take it as a term of endearment.
Brown smiled, then shook his head. “I can’t give you this case.”
Disappointment seeped through her, like black coffee through a white napkin—chucked aside again. How many months had she and Lee been the first ones in and the last ones out? How many crap shifts had they taken? How many cases had they solved that others had simply given up on? Not that she’d argue that.
She tapped the toe of her shoe on the green linoleum floor. “Then what are we doing here?” Her tone had come out snipped, but she couldn’t bring herself to care too much.
Brown grabbed a pamphlet from out of the folder and handed it across to her.
The slick paper pictured a grand mansion surrounded by trees with a carriage in front carrying a man and a woman in old fashioned clothes. At the top of the pamphlet, it read: Regencyland, Bristle Park Resort.
Lee leaned in. Shea angled the pamphlet for him to see.
Brown tapped the edge of his desk. “Well?”
“Well, what?” Shea stared at Brown and tried not to let her face give away her confusion.
Brown signaled to the pamphlet. “What do you think of Regencyland?”
“I think nothing of it.” She clasped her hands over her jean clad knee where the pamphlet balanced. “I don’t even know what a Regency is, let alone a land of it.”
“It’s something to do with Jane Austen,” Brown said.
“Wrong.” Lee’s deep voice broke into the conversation.
Brown and Shea both faced him, Brown with raised brows.
Lee explained, “The Regency era is a period in the early 1800’s in England. King George III was declared unfit to rule and his son, the Prince of Wales, ruled by proxy as Prince Regent until the king died. Jane Austen simply wrote her stories during the period, she doesn’t own it.”
Shea grinned. That was her partner all right, the living encyclopedia. And just as dry. The man almost never cracked a smile or made any expression at all. He was not only the most well-read person she’d ever met, but also a jock. He played several sports, spent at least two hours in the gym every day, and had the muscles to prove it. How he had time to fit in all the reading, exercise, and overtime at work, she didn’t know.
“O-kay,” Brown said, glancing back at Shea. “So, what do you think?”
Shea didn’t know what was going on, but opened the pamphlet and read through it. One word repeated itself in her head in intervals: Weird.
“Enjoy a touch of sophistication in a Victorian style m
ansion while immersing yourself in the regency era.”
Weird.
“Jump into history, wear regency style fashion, and participate in several activities practiced in the early 1800s for enjoyment, such as whist, proper dances, and carriage rides.”
Yeah, that’s weird.
“Experience a proper romance in a safe environment.”
Yikes, weird. And romance in a safe environment? What the heck does that mean?
She chuckled. “Oh, look, it’s conveniently located only three hours out of Sacramento.” She flipped to the prices. “Holy Toledo, that’s a down payment on a brand new Mustang!”
“Don’t worry about the cost,” Brown said.
Shea’s head whipped up. The red light from the phone winked at her. Stop. Don’t go any farther. Danger ahead.
“Don’t worry about the cost?” she asked.
“What do you think of the place?” Brown leaned back in his worn leather chair and crossed his arms.
Shea glanced at Lee.
His expression gave nothing away. Why, oh why did he have to be so stoic?
She faced Brown; she had to nip this in the bud and fast. “I think it’s ridiculous. Women, and I say women because I can’t imagine many men would be into this kind of thing, pay thousands of dollars to spend a couple of weeks playing make believe and dress up. Women desperate for a little romance in their lives and just pathetic enough to allow themselves to be taken advantage of by the male actors that no doubt took these jobs because they knew there’d be desperate, pathetic, rich women to take advantage of. When they leave, they’re even worse than when they started. It’s a crutch for women without meaning in their lives.” She sucked in a breath. Must remember to breathe while ranting.
Brown frowned. “Don’t hold back, Shea. Tell me what you really think.”
Okay, so maybe she’d been a little harsh, but that blasted red, flashing light was making her anxious. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t understand what this is about.”
“You’re going.”
“What?” she and Lee said in unison.
“You. Are. Going,” Brown said. “You leave first thing tomorrow morning.”
Lee’s expression held nothing back now. Shea wondered if he knew his jaw had dropped. Then checked to make sure hers hadn’t.
Brown opened the case file, fished out a photo, and handed it to her. “Do you recognize this woman?”
She and Lee both took an edge of the picture.
Shea did recognize her, but she wasn’t sure how. The woman had about the same sleight weight and build as Shea, but that’s where the similarities ended. Her platinum blond hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin were in stark contrast to Shea’s raven locks, golden eyes, and pale Irish complexion. This woman was born to stand out. Shea’s opposite in so many ways.
“That’s Savannah Cross,” Lee said. “She’s a popular indie-actress.”
“My old beat partner, Ralph Simmons, was her bodyguard up until about three weeks ago. He believes her in danger, and she thinks he’s melodramatic. The two fought about it resulting in his termination,” Brown said.
“If she fired him then why does he care?” Lee asked.
“Savannah is his niece,” Brown said.
“What does this have to do with me?” Shea furrowed her brow.
“Savannah is going to Regencyland to prepare for a role in a period piece. He also thinks she’s trying to get away from an ex-boyfriend too. You’re about the same age.”
The muscles in Shea’s jaw tightened. “You want me to babysit her?”
“Is that a problem, detective?”
Ouch. Brown never referred to anyone as just “detective” unless he was unhappy with them and he was never, never, unhappy with her.
“You can’t be serious.” Aside from pretending to buy drugs off dealers a time or two, Shea had rarely gone undercover. She hated pretending to be someone she wasn’t, even though she was good at it, but this? This was unfathomable. At least acting the part of a crack-whore allowed her to wear jeans and t-shirt.
She pointed to the woman on the cover of the pamphlet. “No one would buy me like this. I know nothing about the period, and I’m not desperate or eccentric enough to do it.”
“But you’re a professional, aren’t you? One who would like to be taken more seriously and given more responsibility?” Brown held her gaze.
She breathed out her nose. Low blow. This was exactly what she’d said, a babysitting detail and nothing more. Even worse, because between her and Lee, she’d been the one chosen. What century was this anyway? Maybe if she stopped wearing makeup, not that she wore much anyway, and got a boy haircut, bulked up even, they’d leave her alone? It seemed to work for Detective White on the fifth floor.
Shea tried a different tactic and pointed out the enrollment page. “It’s too late for me anyway. There’s a thirty-page questionnaire that needs to be filled out a minimum of forty-eight hours before it starts.”
“Done,” Brown said.
Lee slumped forward a little. “That’s what all those questions were about?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You helped him?”
“He didn’t know he was helping,” Brown said.
Great, Shea thought, I’m sure Lee will be real helpful if a serial killer ever asks for my address.
Lee continued to look ahead, but breathed out, “Sorry.”
She felt a little better and stopped glaring.
“Do I need to be here for this?” Lee put his hands on the armrests of his chair, his muscles bulged against his shirtsleeves as he prepared to stand.
“Yes,” Brown said.
“Okay.” Lee leaned back in his seat.
“I prepared a cover story for you, one that requires you to lie as little as possible,” Brown said.
She considered chucking the pamphlet at him. She knew how to act undercover.
“They’ll give you a different back story when you get there. I don’t think anyone will ask, at least they’re not supposed to, easier to lose yourself in the fantasy, but you’re from Boston, you have three younger brothers—”
“I know my history,” she seethed.
“The only difference is your job; you’re now a youth advisor with the state.”
“That was my idea.” Lee sat a little taller.
“Nailed that one.” Brown grinned.
Great, they all had her figured out, was that it?
She was livid, but Lee smirked. Then so did she. If Lee was smiling, she couldn’t help it. It was another rarity for him. Though it could’ve come at a better time. She set her jaw before Brown saw.
“Savannah Cross has three bodyguards who will be accompanying her. They won’t be dressing up or in the story, but they’ll be around. Their pictures and bios are included. I’m confident that you’ll be able to stick to her like glue.” He handed her the file.
If nothing else, Shea was a professional and she’d been given a job, like it or not. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Thatta girl.”
But she had to ask. “Out of curiosity, why aren’t you sending Lee? He clearly knows more about Austen, right?”
Lee breathed out an annoyed sigh but nodded.
“See.” She signaled to him with her hand.
“Lee can’t go, he’s a man. All the men there are actors. There’s no way we can swing that now.”
“So what is my part in this exactly?” Lee asked.
“You’ll be Shea’s contact on the outside, and will work on finding the source of the threats,” Brown said.
“Okay,” Lee said.
Facing Shea once more, Brown grinned. “Pack light and... have fun.”
Yeah, right. “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Two
A bonnet. Shea was wearing a bonnet. And not just a bonnet, she wore bloomers, a corset, and a pale pink, silk, empire-waist dress with cap sleeves, and a white ribbon tied beneath her chest. And a bonnet.
She could only imagine what her br
others would say if they saw her like this, or worse, her colleagues. She’d never live it down. She could almost hear their mocking voices singing “I feel pretty, oh so pretty,” at her. She cursed her mom’s love of musicals.
A bouncy carriage carried her, and two others—Mrs. May Rafferty, the proprietress of Regencyland, and a young woman named Constance Smith. Out Shea’s window, several quaking aspens lined the dirt road. Out Miss Smith’s side of the carriage, on a grassy hill, stood a massive oak tree. Coming off a wood-planked bridge that went over a deep, but dry river bed, they dropped into a nasty pothole. Shea reached out to the sides of the carriage to brace herself.
Remembering the image of herself in the full-length mirror at the cottage where they’d changed with help, that’d been fun, Shea tried not to facepalm. She felt humiliated. And it wasn’t just due to the ringlets they’d curled around her face. Oh, how she’d wished she’d had her gun while that was going on. But no, that was safely locked away in the glove box of her car with her badge; and her car was parked twelve miles from the cottage down a dirt road and through a dense forest.
The decision to leave it in the car had been a hard one, but when the maids had started stripping her down, she’d been glad she had. Not that she could’ve hidden a gun in her dress anyway. If she’d strapped her Glock to her leg everyone would’ve been able to see it in this fabric. Plus, she wasn’t entirely sure it wouldn’t be a little see through in good lighting. She gulped.
As it was, she’d barely managed to hide her cell phone in her cleavage and her charger in her bonnet. That was the only reason she hadn’t chucked the ridiculous thing across the room when they’d first brought it to her, especially considering they had strict rules about “new fangled contraptions” of any kind making their way into Regencyland. She remembered, with a little unease, how the happy smile lines on Mrs. Rafferty’s face had vanished when she’d demanded the phone. Shea was glad she’d had the foresight to hide it.
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