Hattie Goes To Hollywood
CAROLINE JAMES
About the Author
Hattie Goes to Hollywood is the first in a new series of mystery novels by best-selling author Caroline James. The book is based in Cumbria, a county that Caroline adores having lived there for many years when she owned and ran a pub, then a country house hotel. Her writing is inspired by a career in the hospitality industry and Caroline likes to write about life, love and friendships.
Caroline currently lives in Lancashire with her husband and two Westie dogs, Fred and Holly. Her hobbies include mountain walks, sipping raspberry gin and supporting Blackburn Rovers.
Further reading by Caroline James:
Coffee Tea the Gypsy & Me
Coffee Tea the Chef & Me
Coffee Tea the Caribbean & Me
Jungle Rock
The Best Boomerville Hotel
First Published in Great Britain by
The Publish Hub Ltd 2020
Caroline James has asserted her right under the
Copyright, Designs and Patent Acts 1988 to be identified as the author of this work,
No part of this publication may be replaced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Incidents, names, characters and places, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2020 Caroline James
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781916338500
Cover illustration and design by Alli Smith
Contents
HOLLYWOOD
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Thank You
By the same author
Coming Soon In The Series:
39. Hattie and the Heirloom
For my lovely Eric, the firm foundation of my often teetering mountain
With love
HOLLYWOOD
No one knows how the Cumbrian village of Hollywood got its name. Legend has it that an Anglo-Saxon farmer stood on the side of the valley surveying the land that he worked and saw a woodcutter gathering wood from a cluster of trees. When the farmer asked the man what he was doing, he answered, ‘I holling wood,’ meaning, I am hauling wood. The farmer decided to name the land Hollywood and, over the centuries, a village developed around the rich valley where the farmer’s land lay. In more recent years, locals say the name came from a collection of holly bushes in the wood backing onto the village.
1
The first thing Hattie heard on her arrival in Hollywood was a woman sobbing, the desperate kind of sobbing that comes from a person drained of all hope.
The sound stopped Hattie in her tracks.
She looked up at the watery sky and wondered if the heavens had guided her to an unhappy place. This wasn’t the arrival she’d expected, and she turned to stare at an imposing property which stood within a stone’s throw of her little cottage. The weeping came from the garden of the large house. Now an argument had begun, and Hattie strained to hear female voices rising above the privet hedge.
‘It’s all your fault!’ a high-pitched voice could be heard saying.
‘Oh, do be quiet, ranting and raving isn’t going to bring him back,’ came the reply.
The words continued at speed, as if the women were trying to see who could hurt the other the most. But they had moved towards the house and Hattie couldn’t hear the details of the heated exchange. When the momentum gathered and Hattie feared that it would surely end in physical blows, the voices suddenly stopped, and she wondered what on earth was going on. She knew, as a new arrival to the village, that she shouldn’t intervene in her neighbours’ business, but her curiosity was aroused.
It was a mystery and Hattie was intrigued.
She closed the door of her Mini Clubman and turned to push a rickety gate, then stepped onto the uneven path that led to the cottage as a long black vehicle appeared and cruised along the lane, before disappearing through the gates of the house next door. Hattie cocked her head to one side and listened to footsteps crunching on the gravel. A door slammed, then nothing. The silence was now thick and put Hattie on edge but, having started out at first light, she was tired after her journey from Herefordshire. The motorway had been busy and, despite a couple of comfort breaks, Hattie was knackered.
She yawned as she fumbled for the key. It was buried in the cavernous folds of her bag, beneath sweet wrappers and a clutter of lipsticks, pens and coins. In the porch, she unlocked the door. Wisteria hung heavily, stem twisted from years of neglect, clinging to the brickwork, forming an arch of fronds of trailing seedpods; they skimmed Hattie’s soft curly hair and she brushed them away as she stepped into the hallway and looked around.
It was worse than she’d remembered.
The old place was gloomy with a damp smell of neglect. Crossing the tiled hallway, Hattie opened a door. Daylight flooded the room and a haze of dust drifted onto an iron fireplace. Rusty and dusty, it was covered in grey ash. Hattie peered into the murk and pulled a face as she examined a pile of tiny bones amongst a scattering of feathers, tangled beneath the cold embers of a fire that hadn’t been lit for some time. Hattie made a mental note to have the chimney swept as soon as possible.
She dumped her bag on the floor and took off her jacket. There was only one way of dealing with this mess and that was to give the place a damn good clean. She decided to have a good look around and climbed the creaking stairs, every one a different height from the last. Hattie stepped into the main bedroom, where floorboards creaked, and wooden shutters flapped on an open window. She plonked her bottom on a sagging chair and looked out at the property next door.
Holly House was one of the largest properties in the area, she’d noticed it when she first came to see the cottage. Now, the driveway was covered in vehicles and a hearse was parked by the front door. A funeral, she thought, and hoped that it wasn’t an omen. Hattie had no idea who lived at Holly House and clearly there was one less than on the day of her viewing. She remembered her solicitor telling her that the chocolate-box village of Hollywood was home to a warm and welcoming community and that Hattie would soon settle in.
Hattie hoped the solicitor was right.
A knock on the front door made Hattie jump and, unable to see who was standing under the halo of wilting wisteria, she made her way downstairs.
‘Mornin’ missus, ’tis a beautiful day for your move.’
Hattie looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime,’ she said and glanced over his shoulder. The man from the furniture removal company appeared to be on his own.
‘I can’t get the van up the lane; I think there’s a funeral at your neighbours’ house and the lads are waiting for the cars to clear.’
‘You’d better come in and I’ll make you all a cup of tea.’
‘The traffic was busy and we’re running a bit late,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll go and fetch them; I’m sure they could do with a brew.’
Hattie watched him hurry down the path and, realising that she needed to unpack the box that held her emergency supply of tea, gin and biscuits, she soon followed.
As she reached the gate, she saw that the lane was crowded with people. Sombre in black, one or two nodded a greeting as Hattie walked to her car. It looked as though the whole village had turned out to follow the cortege. As the hearse slowly made its way from Holly House, Hattie looked at the glass-sided vehicle. An oak coffin was covered in flowers and Hattie read the words, “DAD”, formed in a carnation wreath.
Behind the hearse, two women sat in the back of a car. There was distance between them as they stared straight ahead. Hattie wondered if the raised voices she’d heard earlier belonged to the occupants of the car - why had they been arguing at a funeral? With interest, Hattie stared into the windows as the vehicle passed and she saw that the women were of different ages; perhaps they were mother and daughter? Neither glanced in Hattie’s direction as the procession progressed, pausing to negotiate the removal van at the bottom of the lane, still unable to make its way to Hattie’s door.
‘I’d better get the kettle on,’ Hattie muttered to herself.
IT WAS late afternoon when Hattie flopped down on a bench in the garden. She held a much-needed gin and tonic in one hand and a packet of crisps in the other. With the removal firm now gone and her furniture unloaded, she contemplated her surroundings.
The village of Hollywood nestled in a Cumbrian valley where the River Bevan meandered. Hattie loved the river with its grassy sloping banks and clear flowing water, that oozed down over the fells, but she never underestimated its strength. Like many locals in the vicinity, Hattie knew that the river had the capacity to change; to rise and flood and wreak havoc to all in its oncoming path when storms lashed, and heavy rains fell. Two years ago, Hattie had been caught up in a flood and witnessed the devastation. Hopefully her new home was safe and far enough away from the river.
She enjoyed her drink, finished the crisps and began to relax. The gin hit the spot and in moments she was dozing.
‘Tha’ looks settled there, sitting in the sunshine.’
She looked up and held a hand to her brow to shield her eyes. ‘Is that you, Alf?’ she asked as a shadow loomed on the path ahead and the bulky shape of a man appeared.
‘Aye, I’m just checking to see if you need any help.’ Hattie sat up and gripped the glass in her lap. ‘I did a few hours ago,’ she said. ‘You timed your visit well, I’m finished for the day.’
‘Holly Cottage is a grand little place.’ Alf ignored Hattie’s sarcasm. He placed his hands in the pockets of his moleskin trousers and rocked on the heels of sturdy boots. ‘You’ll have it fixed up in no time.’
‘Well, there’s a lot of fixing to do.’ Hattie shuffled along the bench and patted the seat beside her. ‘You’ll have your work cut out for a while.’
Alf made himself comfortable then placed two fingers on his lips and, letting out a sharp whistle, smiled when a dog came through the open gate and onto the path, ambling to a halt by her master’s feet. ‘There’s my beauty,’ Alf muttered and he scratched the dog’s head.
‘I was hoping you’d leave the mutt at home.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Ness goes everywhere with me.’
Hattie had little time for pets, least of all a scruffy old black and white sheepdog who looked like she could do with a hot soapy bath. ‘I’m surprised Judy lets her in the house.’ She inched her feet away from Ness, who nestled against Alf’s knee.
‘She lets her in our bed.’ Alf grinned, for his wife loved the dog as much as he did. ‘Will you settle in your aunt’s old cottage?’ He half-turned to Hattie and raised a bushy eyebrow.
‘I’ll give it a go.’ Hattie looked around the unkempt garden and thought about her aunt. The old lady had loved this place but since her death it had begun to deteriorate and now showed signs of considerable neglect. ‘I never thought she’d leave it to me; I hardly knew her.’ Hattie shook her head. In what felt like another life, she vaguely remembered a cantankerous woman who’d always seemed old and grumpy and berated the life that Hattie had chosen. As a young woman, Hattie had been married to an Italian for several years. ‘Aunt Annie was a dragon, she loathed my husband, said he was “too foreign”. I never got on with her.’
‘She must have thought something of you to have left you this place in her will.’ Alf rummaged about in the top pocket of his shirt and, finding a biscuit for Ness, tossed it in the air.
‘I’m surprised it didn’t get left to a dog’s home,’ Hattie said and watched Ness gobble the biscuit. ‘There was always some scraggy object at her feet.’
‘Have you met the folks next door?’ Alf inclined his head and nodded towards the big house where voices could be heard in the garden.
‘No, but there’s been a funeral there today, they must be having the wake now.’ Hattie stood up and wandered over to the hedge. She peered over. ‘Quite a crowd,’ she said as she watched people mingle. Chairs and tables were arranged on the lawn and drinks and food set up under a gazebo, out of the heat of the afternoon sun. ‘I wonder who died?’
‘Her husband, Barry Delaney,’ Alf said.
Hattie turned and stared at Alf. ‘Did you know him?’
‘No, but folk talk and I called in the pub on my way over here.’
‘You could have let me know; I’d have come with you.’ Hattie was keen to try the local. She’d discovered The Holly Bush when she’d walked around the village after viewing the cottage with her solicitor. It was beside the village green, where ducks waddled on a pond and folk walked their dogs or took a stroll.
‘The landlord said the poor bugger topped himself.’
‘What?’ Hattie turned. ‘Are you saying that the woman who lives next door, my new neighbour, had a husband who committed suicide?’
‘Aye, you’ve got it in one.’
‘The poor woman, she must be devastated.’
‘And the daughter too.’
‘He was a father?’
‘Only child, one daughter called Camilla, who lives in Butterly. The landlord says your neighbour is his second wife, Camilla is her stepdaughter.’
Hattie sat herself back on the bench and thought about Alf’s news. Had she heard the mother and stepdaughter arguing that morning and, if so, what had they been arguing about? What a sad time it must be for them both. She made a mental note to pop over and introduce herself in the next day or so.
‘So, where shall I begin?’ Alf looked around at the garden as Ness thumped her tail.
‘Start out here; I’ll have a think about the inside while you make some order of this mess.’
‘It’ll take me a fair bit of time.’
‘Well, that’s something I’ve got plenty of these days; we’ll work through it together.’
‘I’ll be back in the mornin’ in time for a bacon butty.’ Alf stood. ‘Make sure you’re up.’ He whistled as he wandered down the path.
Hattie watched Alf help an ageing Ness onto the passenger seat of an old four-wheel drive, a Land Rover that he’d been driving for years. None of us are getting any younger, Hattie thought as he patted the dog in place and gently c
losed the door. Alf thrust the vehicle into gear and waved as he shot forward and accelerated out of the lane. A thick cloud of diesel engulfed Hattie and she pulled a face as she wafted her hand across her nose. Securing the latch on the gate, she turned back to the cottage.
The sun had begun to set, and the fading light of the summer’s day bled fire red rays across a rhubarb sky. The last days of June had been hot. Voices sounded in the distance and Hattie could hear people call out their goodbyes as they departed from the house next door and tyres crunched across the gravel. Hattie wondered about the man who’d lived at the house and taken his own life. Whatever had made him do it?
She thought about her late husband, dearest Hugo. He’d given her two of the happiest years of her life, but their time together had been short and now Hattie wondered what on earth she was going to do with the rest of her days on this earth. Coming back to Cumbria had seemed the most sensible thing and, already, Herefordshire and her short marriage seemed a distant dream.
Hugo’s death had been sudden. A massive heart attack. But unlike the poor chap next door, Hugo had gone out on a high and his final moments were happy, with Hattie by his side.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 1
