Death in an English Garden: Book Six in the Murder on Location series

by Sara Rosett

  After Torrie turned away from the postbox, Sylvester nodded in my direction. They weren’t looking at me, were they? I glanced around, hoping that some other person had drawn their attention, but except for a pair of joggers who trotted swiftly by, there was only me. Torrie said a few words to Sylvester then he headed toward the river while Torrie strode toward me. Behind her, Constable Albertson moseyed from one shop to the next, but kept his attention on Torrie as she made a beeline for me.

  Great. Just what I didn’t want. The police were obviously keeping a discreet eye on Torrie. The last thing I needed right now was for her to draw their attention to me—especially while the envelope felt as if it was burning a hole in my pocket.

  “Kate,” she said, sounding an awful lot like Elise’s peremptory tones, “Where have you been? I called you several times this morning, but only got your voicemail.”

  I took my phone out of my pocket and checked the display. “I’m sorry, Torrie. I must have forgotten to switch on the ringer this morning.” I was completely out of my routine and off my game. I usually checked the weather and turned on the ringer on my phone first thing each day.

  “At least I’ve caught you now,” Torrie said, but she still sounded displeased. “I’m attempting to get everything in order—all Arabella’s things—so we can clear out of Tate House, but I can’t find her charm bracelet. Was she wearing it yesterday when you found her?”

  “Um…I don’t know…no, I don’t think so.” I stole a glance over her shoulder. Albertson had wandered down one of the side streets that branched off from the pedestrian walkway, but he reappeared, his gaze checking on Torrie’s location briefly before he turned away to study a clothing display in a shop window. “I remember she had a toe ring and an ankle bracelet, but I think that was the only jewelry I saw. Could it be in her room?” If it was in her messy room, it could take a while to find it.

  Torrie pulled a face. “No, it wouldn’t be there—thank goodness. She never put anything away. Never. Her room was always a tip.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t help, but I don’t think she had it on. Wouldn’t she have taken it off since she was about to do yoga?” The jangle of the charms wouldn’t exactly fit with the exercise that was supposed to be calming and relaxing.

  “No. She always wore it, or if she couldn’t wear it, like if she was filming, she put it in a little pouch that was lined with foam. It didn’t make any noise inside the pouch, and no one knew about it.”

  “Oh, yes. I think I saw it on the day we filmed in the gardens. When she picked up her reticule, it almost fell out.”

  “If she took it off at all, she would have put it down somewhere on the stairs while she worked out. But Chester says it wasn’t there.” Her voice held a note of suspicion. “The police tell me it’s not listed as either a piece of evidence or part of her personal property.”

  She must not trust Chester since she wanted to check his story against what I had to say. “I’m sorry. I wish I could help you, but I don’t remember seeing it.”

  She tilted her pointed chin down as she studied the ground, her thoughts concentrated on the past. “She had it on when we arrived back from Parkview that day, so it has to be in the garden somewhere. I must find it.” She said the last sentence under her breath, but not low enough that I couldn’t hear her. The intensity of her voice surprised me.

  It was only a piece of jewelry, and not an extremely valuable one, at that. She noticed my expression and flushed. “It was one of her favorite pieces…her good luck charm. I know her sister will want it…for sentimental reasons. I have to go.” She turned away, and Sylvester immediately left the edge of the river. They met and walked back through the village. After a few moments, Constable Albertson fell into step behind them.

  I followed the path along the river for a few moments, keeping an eye out for anyone interested in me, but no one seemed to be dogging my footsteps. I crossed the bridge and wandered around on the far side of the river for a bit then crossed back, pausing in the middle of the bridge.

  I wasn’t looking at the smooth flow of water, but the buildings around the area. Violet’s mention of cameras everywhere made me realize that despite making sure I didn’t leave my prints on the envelope, there was another way Quimby could trace it back to me. I spotted one camera mounted high on a light pole, aimed at the pedestrian area.

  I supposed there could be others that I wasn’t able to see. I considered hopping in Alex’s little car for a drive to Upper Benning or some other more populated area to mail the note, but I really didn’t want to hang on to it for another moment.

  I crossed the bridge and went into one of the shops where I bought a baseball cap and a T-shirt with an outline of Parkview Hall on it. I managed to get the items into my crossbody bag then I went down a few yards, popped into a tea shop with baskets of flowers hanging under a bright awning. After sipping a cup of tea, I went to the loo, pulled the souvenir shirt over the one I was wearing, and twisted my hair up under the cap. I emerged from the tea shop and was relieved to see a large group of tourists following a woman with an umbrella held high in the air. They were heading for the river, so they’d pass right by the postbox. I was quite a bit younger than most of the group, who wore name tags and carried identical bags that read, “Beautiful Britain.”

  I fell into the group that was following the woman with the umbrella like ducklings waddling after their mother. “The five-arched stone bridge dates from the thirteenth century,” she announced, “and was very important in establishing the village as a market town…”

  I managed to get the envelope out of my pocket with the tissue protecting it from my fingers. I dropped the envelope in the slot and peeled off from the group as the woman pointed out the church and began a detailed description of its history. I wound my way through the village and took a circuitous route back to Cottage Lane. I wanted to pick up Alex’s car and drive over to the inn so I could ask about Gil Brayden, but I wanted to ditch my new shirt and hat and let Slink out, too.

  Once I was in the shade of the path that ran behind the cottages, I took off the cap and removed the extra T-shirt. I was relieved to get rid of the note, but I still felt on edge and started when my phone rang.

  I checked the screen, afraid it would be Torrie—or worse, Elise—but it was Alex. I barely let him say hello before I said, “I have so much to tell you. I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Then let me tell you my news. It’s short: I’m done. On my way back tomorrow.”

  “I’m so glad,” I said. “Was your appointment canceled?”

  “Appoint—? Oh, right. No, it wasn’t.” His voice was wary, and the tension that I’d felt in the garden when I asked him about the appointment was back.

  “Okay,” I said uncertainly, but I didn’t understand at all. If the appointment was still on why was he coming back?

  He muttered something in a frustrated tone that I didn’t catch, then after a short pause he blew out a sigh. “Oh, forget it. I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but I’m tired of trying to keep it a secret.” My heart seemed to dip to my stomach. I couldn’t form any words, but before I could gather my thoughts, he went on, “Are you near a computer?”

  It was the last thing I expected him to say, and it took me a moment to answer. “Ah—no,” I said, thinking of my laptop hidden in his cottage.

  “Well, you’re on your phone. That’ll work. Put me on speaker and go to this web address.”

  “All right.” I slowed my pace until I was barely moving as I brought up the browser and tapped in the address he gave me.

  The page loaded as Alex’s voice came through the speaker. “Can you see it?”

  I stopped walking altogether and leaned against the dry-stone wall in the shade of a tree so that I could see the screen better. The words Elegant Locations headed the page. Two tabs under the words read, “Find your location” and “List your location.” A grid of images filled the rest of the page, all of them stately homes. I r
ecognized Parkview and a few other local manors. As I thumbed down the page, the images scrolled, showing many more locations. “Alex, what is this?”

  “Our website.” Pride tinged his voice. “It’s not finished yet. I’d planned to camp out at a hotel this weekend and get it done.”

  I reached the bottom of the page and read the fine print. “K & A Consulting?” I asked. “That’s…me and you?”

  “Of course,” Alex said. “I mean, if you’re interested in going into business with me…”

  My thoughts were spinning. I’d seen plenty of location scouting websites, but usually they were broad, covering any and all locations around the world, or they specialized by region but covered all different types of locations in that area. “Specialize in stately home location scouting…Alex that’s brilliant.”

  “I thought if we have an online catalog of all the manor houses we could be a clearing house for that niche. You know, go narrow, but really cover that section of the market in-depth. If someone needs a drafty castle on the Highlands we’d have those, but we’d have specs on interior rooms, too. Say someone wants a Georgian ballroom or an Art Deco dining room, they can search for those details and view images of the locations along with information on size and availability. The initial setup will be a lot of work. I think we need more specifics on each location and more images. Right now, I only have exterior shots, but once we start filling out the catalog, we could have details on rooms, grounds, outbuildings—the works. And we could include dates things are available. The flip side is that people could list their properties as well. We could have a sliding scale for listing properties and then we could still do scouting and location management as well.”

  “A sort of middleman for country manors and stately homes,” I said, thinking of how much time it could save producers and production companies. Searching for locations ate up a lot of the budget because travel and in-person site visits were expensive. Of course, they’d still want to visit their finalists in person, but this could save tons of legwork.

  “Facilitator is a better term, I think,” Alex said.

  “Yes, definitely. Oh, Alex, this is great. It means…so many things…” I stopped as it hit me. “It means I can stay—here, in England. And we wouldn’t be scrambling to find work on the same location, or near each other.”

  “That’s the main reason behind the whole thing,” Alex said, his tone going quieter. “Are you in?”

  “I’m so in,” I said, excitement rising in me at the thought of working with Alex all the time and being able to stay without the constant worry about where the next job would be. “Will it pay enough…for both of us, I mean?”

  “Once it gets off the ground, I think it will. It’ll be a little sketchy in the beginning, but you or I can take on some extra scouting work until we get it going, if we need to.”

  “I wish you were here so I could give you a hug.” I pushed off the wall. I was too excited to be still and headed down the path to my cottage. “So this is what you’ve been so secretive about.”

  “Yes, well…I wanted to surprise you with it. I wanted to be able to show you the finished product, but I could tell keeping it a secret was creating a distance between us. I didn’t like that.”

  “I didn’t either. I’m so glad you told me.” All that worry and stress, I thought, mentally chiding myself. So much angst, for no reason.

  “Yeah. I probably should have let you in on it from the beginning.”

  “Well, you certainly won’t be able to keep me out of it now.” I opened the gate and went in the back garden. “You’ll probably be sick of me before this is over.”

  “Never that,” Alex said, his voice soft, then he cleared his throat. “Now, you had something you wanted to tell me?”

  “Oh, that’s right.” My spirits dipped as I thought about the note and the convoluted mess that I was in. “Hold on a second. I just got back and need to let Slink out.” She must have heard me approach because as soon as I unlocked the back door, she shot out of it like an arrow released from a bow.

  She circled the tiny garden, flying over the small area in a circle that made me dizzy. She clearly wasn’t interested in going back inside and paused hopefully by the gate. “Later,” I promised and dropped into one of the chairs under the oak tree near the back garden wall. I’d recently upgraded from flimsy plastic chairs to low-slung wooden models in a smooth grain that let you stretch out your feet while you tipped your head back and studied the pattern of green leaves against the blue of the sky. Slink relented and came over to sprawl, panting, at my feet.

  “Now what’s happened?” Alex asked, concern shading his words.

  I almost told him about the note and the computer searches, but I checked myself. I was feeling skittish and wasn’t sure I wanted to share anything on a cell phone. I’d learned recently that it was fairly easy to listen to mobile phone conversations, and after watching Albertson follow Torrie around, I didn’t want to take any chances. Especially after I’d gone to all the trouble to get the note to Quimby without him—hopefully—being able to trace it back to me. So instead I told Alex about my conversations with Violet and Torrie.

  “She wanted to talk about a charm bracelet?” Alex asked when I finished.

  “Yes. I thought it was weird, too. Especially since Violet didn’t mention it at all. If it were a family heirloom or something like that, you’d think she would have asked about it, too. But she seemed most interested in whether or not Arabella had mentioned funding the art school.”

  A cyclist zipped by, helmeted head tucked low then another figure, this one familiar, moved down the path. I watched until he went by me then hopped up and took a quick look over the garden wall.

  “Kate, are you still there?”

  “Yes. I just saw the oddest thing. It was one of the Hibberts—Sylvester, I think—coming up the path from the village on his way to Tate House, carrying a crowbar.”

  Chapter 21

  WHY WOULD ONE OF THE Hibberts need a crowbar? Why would anyone at Tate House need one? I pondered those questions on the drive to the Old Woodsmoor Inn but hadn’t come up with an answer by the time I parked in front of the two-story white stucco and wood-beamed building with leaded glass windows. It was set back from the road with open countryside stretching out behind it. I’d again left Slink in my cottage, sort of an impromptu security system. She’d hoped for a run, but I’d promised her one later after the meeting, which was still on for late this afternoon. I’d checked my email on my phone and found Ren’s message about the meeting.

  Alex had to cut our conversation short, which was probably a good thing since I was leaning toward giving him a recap of the whole incident with the note and the computer searches, despite my reluctance to talk about it on a cell phone. He would be back tomorrow, which would be soon enough, I told myself. And we were going into business together, I thought, hugging the idea to myself. We had so much to talk about.

  I climbed out of Alex’s MG Midget and swung the door closed. As I crossed the gravel to the inn, my steps slowed. A white Ford Fiesta with a dent near the front wheel well was parked near the inn. I scanned the rest of the cars in the parking area, but didn’t see a bright yellow Italian sports car.

  The inn’s restaurant was popular and guests came from around the world to stay in the quaint atmosphere, so I wasn’t surprised to hear voices coming from the dining room. Even though his back was turned, I recognized Doug’s squat, bulldog build behind the reception counter. As I crossed the wide plank floor, he closed a filing cabinet drawer and turned, his weathered face splitting into a smile when he saw me. “Kate Sharp.” He thumped his palm against the counter. “It’s been an age.”

  “Good to see you, too, Doug. How’s Tara?” Where Doug was blustery and expansive, Tara was quick and efficient, zipping around the kitchen preparing food and overseeing the maids who came in daily to clean the rooms.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “Looks like business is good.” I glance
d out the window to the full parking area.

  “Yes, but we haven’t seen you around.”

  “I know. Work.” I shrugged one shoulder. “Not much time for a leisurely dinner.” My workday often ran past dinner. I usually picked up a quick meal from the pub or the Chinese restaurant.

  “Or dinner at all, from what I hear from Louise. She says you work all hours of the day and night. Aren’t there laws about that?”

  “Not any my boss cares about. Actually, I’m here about something work-related.”

  He scratched his temple and glanced at the computer. “If you’re looking to film here, I don’t see how we could do it. We’re booked solid through the summer.”

  I’d once scouted another of Doug and Tara’s properties, a B & B, that they owned. “No, it’s nothing like that. You heard about the death at Tate House?”

  “Sad news, that. I heard you found her,” he said with a sympathetic look. “I didn’t want to bring it up, unless you did.”

  “I wish I could ignore it, but I can’t. I can’t give you any details, but I was hoping you could give me a little insight into some of your guests, like Stevie Lund. Louise told me he was staying here.”

  Doug ran his hand down over his mouth as he gave a nod. “I think I understand. Your business is involved, and you—or the people you work for—need some information.”

  “You could put it that way.” It wasn’t exactly the reason I was there, but I wasn’t going to quibble with Doug’s interpretation of my request.

  “Guest privacy and confidentiality are important to us,” he said, and I felt my shoulders sag. “I could never reveal anything confidential…but,” he leaned his elbows on the counter as he added, “if you wanted to discuss something that would be obvious to anyone who happened to be in the area, like the location of a certain flash car….that I could talk about.”