Sabotage at Somerset: A charmingly fun paranormal cozy mystery (Oxford Key Mysteries Book 4)

by Lynn Morrison

  H quirks an eyebrow up and snorts a ring of smoke. "Eh? Who's that, Nat? Edward?"

  I shake my head. "Dominic."

  Dominic picks up right away, listening as I provide him a quick update on our morning. When he finishes haranguing me for waiting so long to ring him, he says he'll drop everything and makes me promise not to move a muscle until he arrives.

  Harold is still tied up with his call, leaving H and I to debate what to do next. Going outside the college grounds is out of the question.

  I slump on the bench, grumbling, "I wish there was somewhere we could go to grab a drink and try to take Harold's mind off the production."

  H takes my request seriously, tapping his snout as he ponders the options. "Thar is one place we could go, Nat. It 'as beer on tap and, best of all, it won't cost ya a thing."

  I sit up, intrigued. "What is this wonderland of which you speak, H?"

  "Tha Junior Common Room!"

  "Of course! You're brilliant, H, absolutely brilliant." I pull him into a tight squeeze before he can stop me, and not letting go until he threatens to burn his way out. H pretends to be disgusted by my overly fond behaviour, but I know he secretly loves it.

  I hear Harold wrapping up his call, which is my cue to grab my handbag and lead him to our next stop. "Uncle Harold, can I buy you a drink?"

  He wipes his forehead, sweating under the summer sun. "That would be wonderful, Nat, but we can't leave the college. Remember?"

  "We don't need to, Uncle Harold. Follow me and I'll introduce you to one of the great institutions of an Oxford College — the Junior Common Room. Dominic is on his way. If you can message one of the security team members to show him where we are, he can meet us there shortly."

  With H in the lead, our trio circles around the back way, avoiding running into anyone else. We slip into an unmarked door, H confidently striding along the corridors until he reaches the room we need. A sign on the wall proclaims all are welcome, and I couldn't be more grateful when we go inside and see a line of draft beer taps lining the bar.

  Harold scans the room, his eyes wide with wonder.

  "The Junior Common Room is where students go to relax and hang out." I point towards the big screen TV. "When term is in session, most afternoons you can find students competing with one another on the X-Box and Playstation games. There are rooms like this in all the colleges. In fact, Edward and I watched the boat race between Oxford and Cambridge in St Margaret's JCR. It was way more fun to cheer with the students than to watch it on our own at home."

  "I should have gone to Oxford," Harold mumbles under his breath. "Are you sure it is okay for us to be in here?"

  "Oh yes, definitely. The college included it in your rental agreement. I thought we might have a cast and crew drinks night, but I forgot about it with everything else going on."

  I take Harold's drink order and then shoo him over to the leather sofa with instructions to relax. Feeling extra generous, I include H in my drink prep, pouring him a half pint of stout in addition to our drinks. H can hardly believe it when I place the glass in front of him, and promises to be on his best behaviour. I'm not sure I believe him, but at least I know I can safely leave him in the college overnight if he overdoes it again.

  We're halfway through our pints when Dominic comes hurtling into the room, his arms waving in a frenzy. I pour him a glass of white wine while he babies Harold, hugging him close and making sure he is all right. I wait until he is settled at Harold's side, his arm tossed around Harold's shoulder, before I pass him his drink.

  Somehow Dominic knows that what Harold needs most is to talk through the situation. He asks dozens of questions, pulling the truth of Harold's worries and fears out into the open where we can address them.

  "Hopefully tomorrow things will look brighter, because right now, all I can see are roadblocks," Harold moans. "Poor Vivian! She has to recover; I can't even contemplate the alternative. We had a few scenes left to film with her, and now those will have to be rewritten. It doesn't sound as though she is likely to recover in time to shoot them before we have to leave the college grounds. The college has a hard stop next weekend because they have a conference coming in after us."

  H mutters under his breath, "If she recovers…" I give him the evil eye and say a silent prayer of thanks that my uncle and his partner can't understand him.

  "Don't worry, mi amor!" Dominic's voice oozes positivity. "You and the writing team will have those scenes sorted in no time. You've dealt with worse problems in the past."

  Harold refuses to feel better. "We can change the script, but to what? I don't have time to do more research into Wren's history."

  Dominic is undeterred. "So, make something up. I know you like to be as accurate as possible, but the programme is fiction."

  Harold shakes his head. "Even if I make up something, where will I found a new actor or actress? There's no one, Dommie. And we don't have time to do a casting call."

  It is probably the beer talking, but a potential solution pops into my head.

  "I could do it, Uncle Harold."

  Both men snap their heads up, staring at me in surprise. Harold recovers first. "You? Why would you… what would make you… who would you be?" he splutters.

  I set my glass on the coffee table and shift forward, putting my elbows on my knees. "While you two have been discussing the production challenges, I've been running through the possible suspects. I checked with security. No one entered the college who wasn't part of the crew, other than Kate and the journalist. Given they were both with me, I know they aren't our poisoner. So, it has to be a member of the crew. Or Caleb Farrow. They were the only people who had access to the filmset this morning and could have planted the flower in Vivian's drink."

  Harold's face crumples in despair. "I know, Nat. I've realised that truth as well. But I still don't understand why you would want to get even deeper involved, particularly now."

  "As soon as word leaks out about the poisoning, Somerset College is going to be tarnished by association. My first worry is you, Uncle Harold. I want your programme to be a huge success. Next, as your liaison with the university, part of my role here is to protect the reputation of the college. The sooner we figure out who is behind these terrible acts, the better it is for everyone."

  Dominic tilts his head, assessing me with a thoughtful gaze. "Our Nat might not be a trained actress, but we've been to enough of your events to know that you can command a room. With the right direction, I think you could pull it off."

  With Dominic now on my side, Harold knows he has lost the battle. "But who would you be? From what I recall reading in the writer's research packet, there were no women allowed in the college. That's why we didn't bring any female extras along with us."

  H realises where I'm going. He snorts out a cloud of black smoke, shaking his snout and mouthing the word, "No!"

  I ignore him.

  "There was one woman allowed in the college at that time, Uncle Harold. A laundress. You could name her Molly."

  Chapter Seven

  "Buongiorno, cara!" Ilaria exclaims when I stick my head in her open trailer door the next morning. "Come in, come in. We need to get you measured and see if there is something in here we can make work for your wardrobe."

  I step hesitantly into the trailer, feeling much less confident this morning. Yesterday afternoon, when I came up with the harebrained idea to join the cast, all I could think about was catching our poisoner. While my uncle made calls to the head writer and the costumer, letting them know of the new addition, I was busy preparing my list of suspects and deciding whom to interview first.

  With Edward at his own flat working against a research deadline and H sleeping off his afternoon indulgence in his garden house, I had been left to my own devices. I stayed up late planning my interrogations after rewatching the crime footage, agonising over the lengthy list of potential suspects. I was not thinking about what would happen when it was my turn to set foot in front of the camera. That r
eality had come crashing down when I arrived at Somerset this morning and the security guard directed me to report to the costume trailer for my fitting.

  Ilaria looks absolutely delighted to have a new cast member to dress and offers me no opportunity to escape. She practically drags me through to the racks of costumes, talking nonstop. "How fantastico, darling! Harold says you will be a laundress. I've been sketching since he phoned, and I had more fabric sent up from my warehouse in Buckinghamshire."

  "I'm sorry I've put you to so much trouble," I mumble, feeling overwhelmed within the claustrophobic space. Unlike my first visit to the set design and costume trailer, now the towering racks of costumes loom over me, the corset strings and dress laces threatening to bind me to the racks.

  Ilaria, caught up in her work, takes no notice of my nerves. "Don't apologise. To be honest, dressing the lower class is so much more fun than designing costumes for the hobnobbers. The coarse textures of the inexpensive fabrics must be wrestled into submission to produce a gown which is at once both practical and flattering. This is where my genius sings, cara!"

  I paste a wobbly smile across my face and remind myself again why I am doing this. The producers have millions of pounds riding on the show and Somerset College will hardly appreciate being associated with the near-death of an A-list actress. The only way to stop the scandal rumours from becoming larger than life is to identify the culprit as soon as possible. And to do that, I need an excuse to be right in the middle of the action — even more so than I've been to date.

  Ilaria has me strip down to my skivvies so she can take measurements and before long, she is tugging layers of clothing over my body. Stockings and under-skirts are paired with a billowing blouse. I shut my eyes and suppress a groan when Ilaria holds up a tightly laced bodice.

  Needing a distraction, I launch into conversation. "Where's Marcello this morning? I didn't see him on my way through the courtyard."

  Ilaria pulls a stick pin from her mouth and jabs it into the thick fabric, barely missing my waist. "He is off working on set revisions. He had not planned to show any of the domestic side of college life, but not to worry. He, too, has hundreds of set pieces stored away. He'll have everything he needs in place by this afternoon."

  "I'm sure my uncle appreciates all the extra effort you are putting in."

  She waves away my comment. "This is nothing. We are as vested as Harold in our desire to see the production be a success, and perhaps winning another BAFTA for our shelf. But even if there was no chance of an award, we would still bend over backwards to help Harold. He is a good man, a tesoro!"

  "That he is," I say with my first real smile of the day before shifting to a more serious expression. "What do you make of yesterday's events? Do you think someone is trying to kill Vivian?"

  Ilaria frowns, her brow heavy. "Before yesterday, I wouldn't have said so, but now I am not so sure. Early on, the problems were minor annoyances. We assumed someone was playing a prank or perhaps it was nothing more than a series of unconnected mishaps. Costumes get misplaced, footage can be lost. None of the events themselves were outside the realm of possibility."

  "When did you realise there might be something more afoot? Was it when the crew began referring to it as the curse?"

  "Hmph, no, certainly not then." She chuckles, explaining, "Cast and crew members are notorious for their superstitions. Filming goes well, then it must be my lucky socks or some other nonsense. When things get misplaced, we are doomed by a curse. My mother raised me to ignore this sort of nonsense, which abounds in Italian culture. If you want to talk about the curse, you'd be better off speaking with Marcello."

  Ilaria passes me a kerchief to tie around my neck. "When the lighting rig went toppling down at the Botanic Garden, that's when I knew it was a flesh and blood person committing the crimes."

  I shiver, remembering all too well the sound of the scream sending the birds scattering from the trees. "Once again, Vivian was the target."

  "Vivian or Joyce," Ilaria corrects me.

  "That's right!" Her reminder tickles a memory from the back of my mind. "Joyce seemed annoyed with Vivian when I brought it up the next day. Do they get along?"

  "Vivian and Joyce?" Ilaria repeats the names, considering my question. "They barely know one another, as far as I can tell. No, I suspect that was a simple case of envy. When Vivian leapt out of the way, she shoved into Joyce and sent her tumbling into a flower bed. Poor Joyce came up spluttering dirt, but everyone rushed to check on Vivian. It was nothing personal, but I doubt Joyce could see it that way at the time. The stars of the show are always the top of the list. It is the reality of working in the film industry."

  "Yes, she mentioned having to go home and change." I stick my arms out from my sides, letting Ilaria thread a ribbon through the sleeves. "Looking back, it seems likely that Vivian was the intended target. When she avoided injury, whoever is behind this decided to take their efforts to a new level."

  Now it is Ilaria's turn to shudder. "It is horrible. Absolutely horrible. Poor Vivian, lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life from what I hear."

  "Do you know her well?"

  Ilaria shakes her head. "No, this is our first time working with her. She is approachable… but not overly friendly. You could chat with her about the weather, but she isn't the type you'd gossip with while you're waiting for the kettle to boil. Added to that, Vivian only has a few scenes in each episode, so her time on the set is limited."

  "Any complaints about her? Anyone's nose tweaked out of joint?"

  Ilaria shrugs. "What can I say? She has been purely professional. She shows up on time, plays her part and then leaves. Compared to those actresses who run riot on the set, I'll take a cool professional any day."

  I nod my head in understanding. "Okay, so she isn't a diva. How did she get the role as Wren's love interest?"

  Ilaria taps her chin, searching her memory. "The role was originally meant for another woman, but she had to pull out at the last minute. Something about an opportunity in Hollywood." Ilaria waves her hand. "You know how these things go. Harold asked around the set to see if anyone knew a British actress who might be available. I think it was Caleb, or maybe Gideon who suggested Vivian. Harold made a few phone calls and that was it."

  I start to mention the camera footage but then remember Trevor asked us to keep quiet about its existence. As far as the cast and crew know, Vivian drank something which made her sick. If someone outside of our small group mentions the word monkshood or references the dinner scene set-up, they'll earn a one-way ticket to the top of the suspect list.

  However, that doesn't mean I can't fish around and see what Ilaria might let slip. "You must have seen Vivian a fair bit yesterday, between costuming, hair, and make-up. How do you think she was poisoned?"

  Ilaria cinches the apron strings around my waist before stepping back to admire the result. She tilts her head, the corners of her mouth turned down, somehow not yet satisfied. She spins around, bending over to dig through a plastic bin full of wigs. I can barely make out her reply.

  "Where is that thing?" she grumbles, pulling out hairpieces and tossing them aside. "Poisoning Vivian, you asked? Not that I've given the topic much thought, but it wouldn't be that difficult. She's always drinking some specially made kombucha or aloe water. Compared to everyone else's soda cans and teacups, her drinks definitely stand out."

  Ilaria stands up and turns back to me, a white lacy object in her hand and her nose scrunched up in disgust. "She made me try the kombucha once. Disgustoso. I'll stick with my espresso." She passes me the white doily, instructing me, "Here, put this on your head."

  As I unfold the item, I realise it is a small woman's cap, exactly like the one Molly wears. That thought prompts me to look at myself in the mirror for the first time. I'd been avoiding it before now, not ready to face the result. My eyes grow wide as I take in the full picture.

  Despite having only hours' notice, Ilaria has produced a costume which looks straigh
t out of Molly's wardrobe. The tan-coloured skirt pairs perfectly with the dark blue bodice, setting off the bright white apron and undershirt. With the lace cap on my head, even my modern cut somehow looks old fashioned.

  I meet Ilaria's gaze in the mirror, beaming with excitement. "This is incredible, Ilaria. I can't believe you threw this together so quickly."

  Ilaria winks at me. "If you think this looks authentic, wait until Joe has a go at your hair and make-up. By the time he's done, even your friends won't recognise you."

  "Friends?" I squeak. "Oh my goodness, I forgot Harry is coming on set today. She is going to lose her mind when she finds out I've been tasked with laundering Caleb Farrow's dirty underthings."

  "Don't you mean Sir Christopher Wren?" Ilaria asks, winking again, causing me to burst into laughter.

  ❖

  The ringing of my phone cuts through our laughter. I bend over to retrieve my handbag only to discover that it is impossible to even lean with so many layers of clothing on. Helpless, I have to ask Ilaria to find my phone and pass it to me.

  "Hiya, Harry. Are you here? Did you make it past the security checkpoint? Great. Why don't you meet me in the rear garden where all the trailers are located? See you in a minute."

  "Go, go," Ilaria gestures to the trailer door.

  I hold out my skirt, reminding her I'm still in costume. "Wearing this? But I can barely move in it. Aren't you afraid I'll mess it up?"

  "No, cara. Keep it on. It will take you a while to learn how to move around with a bodice and a bum roll on. You don't have much time before shooting starts, so straight into the deep end you go."

  I'm delighted to discover my dress has pockets. I shove my purse into one and my phone into the other, leaving my handbag in Ilaria's care, and promise to be back in hair and make-up immediately after lunch.