Death in the English Countryside

by Sara Rosett

  The owner, a woman in her early seventies, had refused point-blank to even talk to Kevin. He’d had a ten-second glimpse of her before she shut her front door in his face. He’d turned to me and asked what I thought would get her to come around.

  “Nothing?”

  “Oh ye of little faith. No, she has something she wants. Everyone wants something. Sometimes it’s money, but not always. Recognition, approval, consideration, even flirting, those are all things people want as well. What do you think she wants?”

  “To be left alone.”

  “Well, sure, she does right now, but go beyond this moment.”

  “Umm, money?”

  Kevin laughed. “Did you see those clothes? Cotton T-shirt and worn jeans, both designer brands? Money is the last thing she wants. Last thing she needs, actually. She’s got plenty of it already.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “She’s got enough money that she doesn’t care how she looks—a look that only old-money people have. Usually it’s the nouveau riche who want to flaunt their wealth. Don’t make the mistake of offering money the moment someone blocks you.” Kevin waved a hand. “Look around. What do you see?”

  “A ranch-style house, probably sixty years old, a barn, a paddock, and miles of split-wood fence.”

  Kevin waited expectantly. “Don’t you see it?”

  “What? She likes living in the country?”

  “More than that. See how much nicer the barn is than the house? She loves her horses. Did you notice the homemade water reclamation system on the side of the house? The hybrid car with the canvas bags in the back seat?”

  I scanned the property. “And she has oversized recycling bins along the driveway. She’s into the green movement.”

  Kevin nodded. “A real back-to-nature person who would probably be thrilled to help out a company…” Kevin said in a leading tone of voice.

  “Dedicated to those same principles,” I finished, excitedly.

  “Exactly.”

  We’d returned a few days later with a canvas shopping bag with the company’s logo on it and a report detailing how the company adhered to green ideals. I could tell Kevin had her interest before he got through his first few sentences.

  I’d gone in cold at the rental car counter. My mistake. I ran a critical eye over the woman and decided money wasn’t her kryptonite. A canvas shopping bag wouldn’t sway her either. My professional assessment was that a designer leather handbag would unlock the info on her computer screen, but that was out of the question with my bank account balance.

  “I do have a reservation,” I said while mentally casting around for ideas on how to make the situation work for both of us. I handed over the rental car reservation that Marci had booked for me when she purchased my airline ticket. While Miss Perfect Ascot banged away on the computer keyboard, I came up with a new strategy. I’d get my car then call the rental car company number. I bet they had an automated system, and I could punch in the confirmation code to get the basic details on the rental.

  A buzzer sounded, and Miss Perfect Ascot let out a little huff of impatience when the other woman didn’t immediately move to the back room. “Can you get that? I’m with a customer.”

  “You’d better go.” The other woman twitched her scarf into place and moved to the counter. “It’s a delivery. I saw the bloke on my way in. You’ll have to sign for it. You know, you being the manager, and all. I can’t do that. Go ahead, I’ll finish up here.”

  I signed in the appropriate places then followed the younger woman to the car, a red Golf hatchback. Marci certainly hadn’t sprung for the luxury car, but then again, she’d just paid for a last-minute LAX to London airline ticket, which had to have cost an outrageous amount.

  “I’d upgrade you,” the woman said, “but I don’t have anything else.”

  “Don’t worry. This will be great.” I looked doubtfully at the steering wheel positioned on the right. “That will take a bit of getting used to,” I muttered to myself. On a lot of scouting trips, especially the early ones, I was the designated driver, which had nothing to do with alcohol. As the least senior person on the crew, it was my job to get us where we were going, which freed up Kevin and our clients to work during the drive. I’d done my share of driving in foreign countries, everywhere from the barely-contained craziness of Mexico’s roads to the super organized Autobahns of Germany, but I hadn’t driven in England.

  “Never driven on the left?” She opened the hatchback and handed me the keys.

  “Nope. No time like the present.”

  “You’ll do fine. It’s an automatic.”

  “Thank goodness for that.” I removed my GPS from my tote bag before I tossed it along with my tiny suitcase in the back and closed the hatch. I’d packed for this trip like any other scouting trip—light. Kevin was easy-going in most ways, but absolutely ferocious about luggage. Two bags—two small bags—were his limit. I’d looked at him doubtfully the first time I went out of town on a crew, but when I arrived at the airport and saw our luggage and gear arranged in a small foothill, I’d realized how smart he was.

  As the woman handed me the paperwork for the car, she leaned a little closer. “That confirmation number you were curious about—still open. And being charged everyday it’s not back.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” Sometimes all it took was a little sympathy to gain someone’s cooperation.

  She nodded and headed back to the counter. I started the car and adjusted the mirrors, then sat there for a moment, the kernel of worry growing as I thought about the bill adding up on the rental car. Kevin wasn’t careless about the financial aspects of the business. He wasn’t a tightwad—he’d spring for lunch for the office, and he always gave us Christmas bonuses—but he kept an eye on expenses. It was hard to imagine him letting the rental car charges continue to build.

  I blew out a breath and decided I couldn’t put it off any longer. I had to get on the road. I wanted to be in the village of Nether Woodsmoor before nightfall.

  ***

  With the help of the GPS and only three near heart attacks later, I had managed to stay on the correct side of the road and had negotiated away from the clogged roads of London to the clogged motorway that stretched north. Nether Woodsmoor was a small village located in the English countryside of Derbyshire and, according to our local location scout, ideally suited for a day’s exploration of potential filming sites. Remembering the emails he and Kevin had exchanged, I had been careful to put the full name of the village into the GPS. Nether Woodsmoor was a completely different place than Woodsmoor, he’d cautioned.

  The tall hedgerows sped by, and I caught a few glimpses of thatched roofs, but my attention was more on the car and the road than the scenery until I drove over a wide, fast moving river into Nether Woodsmoor.

  Cottages of honey-colored stone lined the narrow streets. The main road curved and brought me into the center of the village where I slowed to take in a tea shop with window boxes of flowers, stores with striped window awnings, and swinging signs poking out into the air advertising everything from pubs to a bike shop. A church in the same golden stone towered imposingly over a broad swath of green grass lined with flowerbeds. It was a perfect English village. I loved it from the moment I saw it and I bet Kevin did too.

  I found the Old Woodsmoor Inn farther down the road beyond the church. A two-story white stucco and wood beamed building with leaded glass windows, the inn had been converted from a coaching inn to a boutique hotel.

  Set back from the thoroughfare on a quiet stretch of the road, there were no other buildings around the inn, only rolling green fields stretching off into the distance and occasional bunches of trees. A series of low walls made of flat stones stacked on each other divided the fields into sections of varying shapes and shades of green.

  I crossed the gravel parking area to a paved courtyard. Inside, wide plank boards creaked under my feet as I crossed to the reception desk under an exposed wood beam ceiling.
Beyond the reception area, tables and bench seating ranged around the room. The inn was obviously a popular spot for dinner, and I quickly scanned the occupants of the tables for Kevin’s oversized frame, but he wasn’t at one of them, nor was he lounging in a chintz-covered armchair in front of a fireplace.

  “May I help you?”

  I turned my attention back to the desk where a guy of about forty with thinning blond hair and a bulldog-like build, squat and sturdy, stood behind the counter.

  I gave him my reservation details and added, “I’m with Premier Locations.” I knew Kevin would have used the company’s name, and he and Mr. O’Leery would have registered under their own names. There was no way you could keep a secret from the actual town where you were looking to film a movie. The best he and Mr. O’Leery could hope for was that the attention they drew remained local and didn’t reach across the pond.

  “Right. Right. The chap who got called away, unexpected like. Room Twelve.”

  I nodded a vague agreement. Marci had obviously spun a tale to cover for Kevin’s no show.

  He continued, “Got his stuff stashed away, all secure.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “I’ll send it up to your room shortly. You’re here for two nights?”

  “Yes. Wrapping up a few things for Kevin.” I pulled out my company credit card. “Did he leave anything open? Any incidentals that need to be paid? Bar tab, something like that?”

  He checked the computer screen. “No. Didn’t have time to run up any charges. Wasn’t around here much.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. He and his mates left early, stayed out all day.”

  “Did you happen to see him on Thursday or Friday?” I asked, striving for a casual tone.

  “No, not him. One of his mates, the sickly-looking fellow, I saw him on Friday.” I nodded, recognizing Mr. O’Leery from his description.

  He continued, “I carried his bags out to his car. That was quite a sight for our little village—a fancy black limo picking up a bloke just to drive him to the airport. Posh.”

  He pushed a key across the counter to me. “You’re in the next room along from where your colleague stayed, thirteen. I’m Doug. My wife Tara and I, we’re the owners. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.” He tilted his head to the end of the L-shaped room. “Bar’s around the corner and stays open until one. The restaurant opens for breakfast at seven-thirty.” He came around the counter and picked up my small bag.

  “So, Doug, what is there to do around here?”

  “There’re a couple of pubs down the road in the village proper. The White Duck is the closest. Food’s good. Not as good as here.” He smiled.

  “Of course not.”

  “Got several grand houses close-by. Lots of nice trails for rambling. The closest is across the road. Bit of a climb up the hill, but a nice view at the top. If you like sport, we have a golf course over toward Brunner’s Hill. And Roman ruins about twenty minutes up the road, too. After Easter, things pick up, but for now we’re a quiet place.”

  “Sounds lovely.” I followed him up a set of wooden stairs to a narrow hall decorated only with a carpeted runner. There wasn’t room for anything else. The low ceiling and small doors reminded me how old the building was. Clearly, the whole place had been modernized and updated, but I felt the age of the building on the upper floor. I envisioned men in great coats and women in Regency bonnets, their skirts swishing along the floor, as they moved down this hallway.

  “Here we are.” Doug opened a door midway down the corridor. More chintz, this time an unusual pattern of flowers and parrots, provided bright accents in the room, which contained twin beds and a wardrobe in dark wood. He pushed open a door on the far side of the room. “En suite bath here.”

  “Looks wonderful. Thank you.” I reached for my wallet for a tip, but he held up his hand.

  “Not necessary. Just doing my job.”

  He was gone before I could insist. I sat down on the armchair positioned by the single window, which overlooked the front courtyard and gravel sweep, and consulted the paper with Kevin’s rental car information. Marci hadn’t gone cheap with him. She’d reserved him a car from the luxury tier, a sedan. He was traveling with Mr. O’Leery, so the nicer car was understandable.

  I scanned the parking area. No luxury cars, but they might have given him a different car at the airport. I took out the temporary cell phone and sent a text to Marci, letting her know I’d arrived at the inn, and that there was no sign of Kevin. Can you find out what kind of car he got at the airport? Color? Make? They didn’t want to talk to me since my name wasn’t on the reservation. Found out he hasn’t returned the car yet, though.

  A tap on the door sounded. I opened it, and a teenage boy, who I assumed was Doug’s son because of his shock of pale hair, brought a rolling suitcase and a large backpack into the room. I thanked him and closed the door, then stood there a moment, looking at the two bags. Of course, I’d expected Kevin’s battered silver hard-sided case. It was the other bag that had thrown me. It was the go-bag. Where would Kevin go for days and not take the go-bag?

  Chapter Three

  Always take the go-bag. It was one of Kevin’s golden rules. He didn’t have tons of rules. He wasn’t a nitpicky boss. The “no more than two bags when traveling” was one rule. Another was “always take the go-bag.” His voice echoed in my head, “You never know when you’ll need it. And I promise you, the time you don’t take it—that’s when you’ll wish you had.”

  I crossed the room and slowly opened the backpack. It was filled with labeled zipper pouches containing our equipment. I ran my hands over the pouches, mentally checking them off. They were all there. The only thing missing was Kevin’s trusty Canon.

  I opened the suitcase next. His laptop sat atop a mess of haphazardly folded clothes. I set the laptop aside and shuffled through the clothes. It was the suitcase of a seasoned traveler—khaki and dark pants, an assortment of short- and long-sleeved shirts, all in fabrics that could be washed out in the sink and that would dry quickly, wrinkle free. A sport coat and a few ties were on the bottom of the suitcase. A mix of socks and underwear, a pair of sweats, and a shaving kit rounded out the items. Nothing earth shattering there. Except there was no jacket and no camera. I wasn’t surprised about the camera. I was sure Kevin had it with him.

  I went through the clothes again, then sat back on my heels, frowning. Knowing England’s notoriously fickle weather, Kevin would not travel here without a waterproof jacket and an umbrella. I tried the laptop, but it was password protected, and my attempts to guess his password failed.

  My cell phone buzzed with a text from Marci. Glad you’re there. No word here. K’s rental was a black Mercedes. Keep me updated.

  I went to the window again. A few more cars had arrived, and one of them was a black Mercedes. I left the suitcase and backpack where they were and grabbed my black peacoat. Back in hot Southern California, I almost hadn’t packed the wool coat, but I was glad I’d brought it. The breezy mid-sixty degree temperature felt down right cold. I shoved my wallet, room key, and temporary cell phone in my pocket. I was about to head downstairs, but I went back to my luggage and pulled out my personal cell phone, which I’d also brought with me. It was turned off to save on international roaming charges.

  I turned it on and used the inn’s Wi-Fi to check messages and texts. I deleted a long-winded voicemail from my mom reminding me about the dinner party. My mother tended to only hear what she wanted to and forgot everything else. I texted back. Impossible. Out of the country.

  I also had several texts from Terrance. The first read, R u here? The next asked if he’d gotten the day or time wrong. I groaned and tapped out a quick reply. How had I forgotten to tell him that I was going out of town and couldn’t make our rescheduled date for lunch at the sushi bar? I waited a few moments to see if he’d reply back, but he didn’t, so I headed downstairs.

  I passed through the reception area
and took a quick look around the restaurant and bar area, but didn’t see Kevin. Maybe he’d just arrived.

  I hurried across the courtyard to the gravel parking area. The black Mercedes sat at the far end of a row, angled into a spot on the grass that I bet wasn’t meant to be a parking slot. As I got closer, I could see a sign posted on a tree directly in front of the Mercedes that read NO PARKING. Typical Kevin, I thought with a surge of relief. He did have an arrogant streak. He often double-parked or slipped into no parking zones.

  I always protested when he did it, but he brushed me off saying, “That’s not for us. That’s no parking for other people.”

  As I neared the car, my steps slowed. Now that I was closer, I could see through the tinted windows to the backseat where I could make out the shape of a child’s car seat and some toys.

  It wasn’t Kevin’s car—it wasn’t even a rental. I stood with my hands on my hips for a second, then blew out a breath and turned to the road. The inn was set a little distance beyond the main hub of activity in the village, but I could see the sign for the White Duck. It was twilight, but I could make the short walk into the village before the sun went down. I followed the well-worn path beside the road, passing the church and village green. The pub had heavy wooden beams on the ceiling and a stone fireplace that filled one wall. Copper pots decorated the walls along with chalkboards listing specials. A few people were scattered around the room, mostly near the fireplace.

  No sign of Kevin, which was becoming a recurring theme. I studied the menu, ordered a shepherd’s pie at the bar, paid with the pounds I’d exchanged at the airport, and found a quiet table near a window. When the waitress brought my food, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since the questionable pasta I’d had on the plane. My mouth watered at the sight of the toasted golden potatoes layered over meat and veggies. I dug in, consuming the whole thing in a truly unladylike fashion. The woman who’d taken my order at the bar circulated through the pub, wiping down tables. When she reached my table, she gestured to my plate, eyebrows raised. “Take that for you?”