by Sara Rosett
Death in an English Cottage
Book Two in the Murder on Location Series
Sara Rosett
Contents
About Death in an English Cottage
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
A Note From The Author
About the Author
Other Books By Sara Rosett
Death in an English Cottage
Book Two in the Murder on Location series
Sara Rosett
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Copyright © 2014 by Sara Rosett
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All rights are reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this work may be used, stored, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner or form whatsoever without express written permission from the author and publisher.
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This is a work of fiction and names, characters, incidents, and places are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, incidents, and places is coincidental.
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About Death in an English Cottage
Book Two in the Murder on Location Series
It’s spring in England, and location scout Kate Sharp has returned to the quaint village of Nether Woodsmoor with its lush gardens, budding hedgerows, and mellow stone cottages to work on a Jane Austen television documentary. The unique opportunity also gives her the chance to explore a possible romance with Alex, the deliciously rumpled local scout.
Rumors of recently discovered Jane Austen letters stir up the production, but then an unidentified young woman dies in a fire in a village cottage, and the police investigation narrows to focus on the documentary crew.
Desperate to keep her job and help a friend under suspicion, Kate delves into the search for the identity of the woman. Who was she? What was her connection to the seemingly sleepy village? And who in the village is lying?
“Seldom, very seldom, does complete truth belong to any human disclosure; seldom can it happen that something is not a little disguised or a little mistaken.”
—Jane Austen, Emma
Chapter 1
HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN about the rain? I wiped my hand across the interior of the taxi’s window to remove a layer of condensation. It didn’t help me to see much better. Raindrops coursed down the exterior of the window, blurring the landscape into an abstract in shades of green.
It was funny—or perhaps ironic—that I’d so thoroughly eliminated the rain from my memories. It wasn’t as if it hadn’t rained during my visit to England a month earlier. It had rained often—quite often, actually. But as I packed up my belongings and sorted some of my things into suitcases and others into storage in parched and sunny Southern California, my memories of England were of clear blue skies dotted with puffy clouds over rolling green hills and a quaint English village glowing golden in the sunshine.
I shifted uncomfortably in the seat and tried to curb the uneasiness that had crept over me. What had seemed an innovative and exciting career move in the shimmering heat of Los Angeles now seemed impulsive and rather foolish.
My phone rang, and I saw it was Marci, the office manager from my old location scouting firm. “How is jolly old England?” Marci asked after I answered.
“Rainy. Dreary.”
“Ah, that would be nice. We haven’t had rain here, not even a sprinkle, in…I don’t know…I can’t remember the last time it rained. How are you holding up, kid?”
“I have that terrible, what-have-I-done, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach,” I admitted.
“Jetlag,” she pronounced. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“What, other than moving to a foreign country on the spur-of-the-minute for a short-term job?”
Marci’s rich laugh filled the line. The driver glanced back at me before refocusing on the road. “Exactly,” she said, then her tone turned serious. “Don’t come back too soon.”
“And I thought you were going to miss me.”
“Oh, I do. You should see the expense reports these people turn in. I’m only saying that you seemed to want something…different.”
“I did. I wanted a change.”
“You sound so regretful.”
“Just second-guessing myself. You’re right. It’s got to be the jetlag. I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Probably spouting about how wonderful it is and how you love hot tea or something. You take care, kid.”
“Thanks, Marci.”
I straightened my shoulders. It was perfectly natural to feel a little off-balance during a transition. But that’s what I wanted, a change. Something new.
I had fallen into a location scout job a few years ago. I was very good at focusing on the task at hand. So much so, that I had spent the last few years working intently to keep my head above water financially, but last month I’d finally switched my vision from my usual up-close day-to-day focus to the long-term horizon. I hadn’t liked what I’d seen. My job consumed me. It was that sort of work. Fifteen-hour days and a pace that required intensity and focus. When the offer came through Alex to work in England, it had seemed to be a wonderful change. I loved the idea of being in England for a month straight, and although I knew the pace would be just as hectic as in Southern California, there was another reason I’d accepted the job.
Alex Norcutt. There was something between us. I wasn’t quite sure what it was. There was a friendship, yes, certainly that. But maybe something more. I’d decided I wanted to explore those possibilities, and the job offer gave me the perfect opportunity to do that.
The taxi swung into a turn and crossed a bridge. I recognized the wide, fast-moving river. We were in Nether Woodsmoor, the golden stone cottages and shops flicking by the window. Gloomy clouds hung low, casting a gray tinge on the butter colored stones. Striped awnings pulsed and hanging baskets, bright with flowers, spun in the stiff breeze. A few people hurried across the street, their umbrellas pushing into the wind. The chairs and tables of the two sidewalk cafes on the village’s high street were stacked under the eaves. Swinging signs for the White Duck pub, the bike shop, and the tea shop flicked back and forth at a manic pace.
I checked the text again on my phone as we cruised by the sturdy centuries-old church with its pointed spire that seemed to almost touch the low clouds. Alex had said to come to the inn, that they were meeting there, but the whole village looked as if it had battened down the hatches against the storm.
I flicked through the texts Alex and I had exchanged for the last few weeks. A month ago when I’d accepted the job, we had talked on the phone frequently. There were a lot of details to work out, but as pre-production on Jane Austen: Secrets Revealed ramped up, his phone calls tapered off and the number of texts increased.
I went to the last texts we’d exchanged. I’d planned to rent a car as I had the last time I was in England, but he’d sai
d to take a cab. We’d had a bit of an argument—as much of an argument as you can by text—with me insisting that I’d need a car and Alex contending that the production had several cars I could use once I got to Nether Woodsmoor. I didn’t like the idea of being without a car. I was a California girl, after all. Public transportation was all well and good, but I wanted options and freedom; however, in the end, I’d capitulated when Alex had said he didn’t know if the production could cover a long-term rental, but he would check. Not wanting to get off on the wrong foot with the producer, I’d told him to forget the whole thing.
I had taken the taxi and watched the meter climb, thinking that Kevin, my former boss, would lose it if I turned in a receipt for a taxi ride over an hour long. I shook my head and squashed down the sadness I felt. I wasn’t working for Kevin. I pushed those thoughts away. This was a new project, a new beginning. A bolt of lightning flickered in the distance and thunder rumbled.
I found Alex’s most recent text, a reply to the text I’d sent him to tell him I’d landed in Manchester. He’d texted back, At a Secrets Revealed lunch meeting. We are at the inn. Have the taxi drop you there. See you soon.
I wrinkled my nose over the documentary title that I had signed on with. It sounded sensational and overly dramatic. What secrets were there to be revealed about Jane Austen? Hadn’t every possible nuance of her writings and every crumb of info about her life been examined by scholars and fans alike? Of course the documentary was for television. Sensationalism sells, not as much as sex, but hey, you work with what you’ve got, and there was precious little sex in a documentary about Jane Austen, so I guess that left sensationalism.
I had met Alex when the Los Angeles-based location scouting company I worked for was tapped to find locations for a new feature film version of Pride and Prejudice. When the remake fell through, the producer of the Jane Austen documentary had contacted Alex, asking him to come to work for her, rightly assuming that much of the work he’d done scouting locations for the movie could be used for the three-episode documentary. It was a large, fast-moving project, and Alex had suggested I come on board to help with the location scouting and the Jane Austen details. I was a bit of an Anglophile—at least that’s the way I preferred to think of it. My mom would say less kindly that I was a Jane Austen nut and spent far too much time immersed in books.
I scanned Alex’s text again. Short and to the point. If I’d been sending it, I would have included a smiley face at the end, but then again, maybe emoticons were more of a girl thing. The tone of his texts had become more perfunctory over the last week or so, and I hoped he wasn’t regretting the job offer he’d secured for me. I put my phone away. Too much analysis.
I looped my tote bag over my shoulder and tucked a few strands of hair that had come loose from my ponytail behind my ears—that was the extent of my damage control. There’s not much a girl can do to mask a ten-hour trans-Atlantic journey.
We were out of the village proper, and I could see the white stucco and wood beamed two-story inn set back from the road with its diamond-paned windows glowing brightly in the murky atmosphere.
Crouched under my umbrella, I paid the cab driver and carefully tucked the receipt away in my Moleskine journal, then hurried through the rain to the inn, the wheels of my suitcase bumping over the paved courtyard as the rain sluiced down the gutters. Another distant rumble of thunder sounded as I opened the inn’s door. A wash of sound drowned out the thunder—boisterous laughter, the constant murmur of low conversation, and the clink of cutlery.
While outside was deserted and rain-drenched, inside was packed. I paused to park my suitcase beside the empty check-in desk as I scanned the crowded restaurant that occupied the main floor of the inn. Every table under the beamed ceiling was full. Even the chairs around the fireplace were occupied with people clutching pints of beer, their waterproof gear, backpacks, and bike helmets draped over the chintz-covered wingback chairs and scattered around them on the hardwood floor.
“Kate!” I recognized Alex’s distinctly unaccented voice, which stood out from the crisp British accents around me. He was American, but had grown up moving around the United States and foreign countries as his dad shifted from one diplomatic job to another. I spotted him moving through the crowded tables at his relaxed lope.
He looked just as he had the last time I’d seen him: slightly mussed light brown hair, chocolate-colored eyes, and a wide, easy smile. He extended an arm. I’m not the hugging type. I usually like a good bit of personal space around me, but I couldn’t exactly stick out my hand for him to shake at this point—at least that’s what I told myself as I leaned in—and we embraced in a side hug, which pressed my nose into the rough weave of his sweater. He smelled of laundry detergent, coffee, and a hint of some sort of lime shaving cream or cologne.
We pulled apart, and he gave me one of his long, assessing stares. “Kate. Good to see you.”
Alex was one of the few people I knew who really focused on the person he was talking to, giving each person his undivided attention. I’d forgotten how intense his gaze felt. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
The noise and bustle of the room seemed to fade a bit as I smiled back at him. “Me too.”
“Good flight?”
“Not bad. My seatmate didn’t drool on me or insist on talking for ten hours straight. I even got a little sleep.”
“So you feel up to meeting everyone?” He tilted his head toward the table where he’d been seated, and the volume of the ambient noise went back up, engulfing me as I transferred my gaze to the group of people seated at a long table littered with papers, coffee mugs, tea cups, crumb-smeared plates, and cell phones.
“Yes, of course.”
“Great. Here, let me.” Alex lifted my tote bag off my shoulder and led the way to the table where he hooked it on the back of what had been his chair. “Everyone, this is Kate Sharp.” Alex pulled out the chair for me and smoothly confiscated what seemed to be the only empty chair in the whole place from a nearby table, pulling it up beside me, and taking a seat.
A man at the far end of the table raised his mug at me. “Ah, the Hollywood location scout come to rescue us.” He had a rough around the edges look about him, like he could have been turned out in pressed clothes and with combed hair and less stubble if he cared, but he didn’t. I put his age at mid to late thirties, but it was hard to tell because his black hair hung low and scruffy over his pronounced brow. The collar of his shirt was crumpled up on one side, smashed into the worn lapel of a mustard colored blazer. His light brown eyes twinkled. “Nice to meet the amazing Kate. I’m Felix Carrick.”
“Felix is our cinematographer,” Alex said.
“Hi, Felix. Nice to meet you, but I think you’ve got a mistaken impression about me. I’m not amazing.”
“You are, according to Alex. He says you’re a walking, talking Jane Austen encyclopedia.”
I shot a glance at Alex, who shook his head. “Felix’s specialty is exaggeration.”
“I do know a little about Jane Austen, but I’m certainly not an expert.” I’d done grad work in English Lit and planned to write my dissertation about Jane Austen, but that had been a long time ago. Another lifetime, it seemed. “I do love her books.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Felix said.
“Don’t be sarcastic, Felix,” said a young woman with several eyebrow rings and short blond hair, except for her bangs, which were bright fuchsia. She wore a poncho made of rough, natural-looking fibers over a pink long-sleeved T-shirt.
“Ah, sarcasm…the province of the young, or so they think,” Felix said.
The poncho flared as the woman extended her hand to me. “I’m Melissa Millbank. Continuity.”
I shook her hand and said hello while Felix watched us from his sprawled position. Melissa turned back to Felix. “Just because you don’t like Austen doesn’t mean you have to diss her.”
“Yes, yes, I know. It’s the universal love of dear Jane that will make our project
a success. I know the drill. I’ll spout the correct propaganda when I’m interviewed for the featurette.” He heaved a mock theatrical sigh. “And I thought escaping the corporate world would mean I didn’t have to toe the party line. I should have known better.”
“So you’re new to film production?” I asked to be polite.
“Been doing it for years, only up until three years ago it was for corporations. But let’s get back to you, Kate.” His face turned serious. “The question is what camp are you?”
“Camp?”
He leaned forward. “Yes, what kind of Janite are you? Are you a ‘gentle Jane’ adherent? Do you think she was a quiet spinster writing novels about true love? Or, are you in the feminist camp,” he asked with a quick glance at the other woman at the table, whose head was bent over a sheet of paper beside a young lanky guy. The two were involved in an intense discussion. “Was Jane years ahead of her time, writing in code, as it were, subverting the status quo, with feminist subtexts?”
“I think she was an excellent writer.”
“Ah, you’re no fun.”
“She’s got your number, doesn’t she, Felix?” Melissa turned to me. “Felix is our resident troublemaker. Don’t take the bait, and you’ll drive him crazy. But it seems you’ve already figured that out. It’s something I have a hard time remembering.”
The conversation between the woman who was seated beside Melissa and the long-limbed young man ended. Gathering his papers, he stood, stuck a pencil behind his ear and grinned at me. “Paul Alexander. First A.D.” I had a quick impression of his height—he had to be over six-five, but he wasn’t burly. He was all boney shoulders and arms, and looked like he hadn’t had a square meal in weeks. I shook his hand, and he gulped down the last of his coffee from his standing position before he hurried away through the tables.