Death in an English Cottage: Book Two in the Murder on Location Series

by Sara Rosett

  The rain had started up again. I hurried down the steps and scurried to my cottage where I again struggled with the lock until it finally opened.

  I downloaded the photos of Rafe’s cottage, selecting the best ones, then resized them and compiled a written scouting report for Elise. I called her, asking how she wanted to receive it. “Email it, of course,” she snapped. “And in the future, call Mary, my P.A., with trivial questions like that.” She hung up and a few seconds later, I received a text from her. I need you at Parkview tomorrow at five sharp. Talk to Alex. He has all the details.

  I assumed that it was actually Mary’s email that she wanted the report sent to, but Elise hadn’t given me either Mary’s email or her own, so I called Alex.

  “Do you have an email address for Elise’s P.A.?”

  “Yes, let me send it to you.”

  “Great. Send me Elise’s as well. And anyone else’s that you think would be useful.”

  “I’ll send them as soon as we hang up. Were you able to look at the cottage Elise wanted you to scout?”

  “Yes. Report’s done. That’s why I need the emails.”

  “Elise will be impressed. I told her you were top-notch.”

  “She didn’t sound impressed.”

  “Well, she’s not going to come out and say it. That might ruin her image.”

  “No danger of that,” I said. “So Parkview Hall tomorrow? Elise says you’ll give me all the details.”

  “Right. How about we meet at the pub in an hour? We can discuss it over dinner.”

  “Sounds good.”

  A long text came in a few minutes later with what must have been contact information for most of the crew and local people associated with the production. I sent off the report to Mary, but made sure to copy Elise on it. I didn’t want any confusion on whether or not I’d completed the assignments she’d given me. Then I set two alarms, made up the bed with a stack of fresh linen from the little makeshift closet, and allowed myself to stretch out on the bed and close my eyes.

  The White Duck pub was even noisier and more crowded than the inn’s restaurant had been earlier in the day. Alex saw me and half stood. I made my way through the evening crowd to his table. Louise, the owner of the pub, saw me and gave an exaggerated wave that shook her cherry black ponytail. She performed a mime, indicating she was drowning in orders, and I called out that I would talk with her later. I was glad she was busy. At least the stormy weather would help her business.

  Alex didn’t meet me halfway or give me a one-arm hug, which was fine. I hadn’t been expecting either one…had I? No, of course not. I reached the corner booth where Alex and Melissa Millbank were seated. Another man stood beside the table holding a plastic bag of take-out food boxed in Styrofoam containers. Light blond hair brushed the frames of his wire-rimmed glasses. He had a blond beard and mustache threaded with a few hints of gray and wore a black raincoat over a beige shirt and dark pants.

  “Kate, this is Hector Lyons, our elusive neighbor,” Alex said.

  I extended my hand and worked a smile onto my face. It had been a long day and even though it was early—barely after six, I was feeling every minute of the time change. My nap was just long enough that my body clock was thoroughly confused.

  “Elusive neighbor?” I asked as we shook hands.

  “Hector lives in Tate House. You can see his roof through the trees on the hill above the cottages.”

  “Oh, yes. Beatrice pointed it out.”

  “And he’s there…well, pretty much all the time,” Alex explained.

  “Not all the time. I’m here, aren’t I?” Hector shook his head, but was already backing away from the table, clearly intent on leaving the little group as soon as he could.

  “But you’re already heading back. You’ve been out, what, thirty minutes at the most, I bet,” Alex said.

  “What can I say? A computer programmer’s work is never done.” He rapped lightly on the table with a knuckle, nodded to me and moved swiftly through the tables.

  Alex waved me into the booth ahead of him, so I scooted around to sit between him and Melissa, who asked, “So, he works out of his home? Must be a pretty good job if he can afford that house on the hill.”

  Alex said, “I have no idea who he works for. He’s freelance, I think. He’s never really said, but he’s always busy so he must be in demand. I never would have met him if he hadn’t joined the cycling club and gone on a few rides with us.”

  “I didn’t know you cycled,” I said.

  “You sound astonished.”

  “No, not that you ride. It just seems that bicycling would be a little…tame…for you.” I could easily picture Alex’s lean form on a bike, but I knew he was once very big into snowboarding.

  “Our cycling club certainly isn’t the Tour de France, but we do some challenging rides occasionally. Most of the time it is just about enjoying the countryside and getting some exercise.”

  “Sounds fun,” I said. “I haven’t ridden a bike in years.”

  “You should join us. We have a ride this coming Saturday. It’s a scheduled day off from filming. Nothing competitive like the last one. It was a three-tiered race last week, so this next one is relaxed.”

  “Three-tiered?”

  “Different divisions. We had a 40-mile route as well as a 75- and 100-mile route.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “One hundred miles? On a bike? Okay, I take back what I said about it being too tame. I’m not signing up for anything like that, am I?”

  “No, next week is a short one, three kilometers. That’s about two miles. We’re going out to Bradley Castle. It’s a ruin. You’d like it, I think. Very Northanger Abbey. Or, at least, that’s what it makes me think of now that I’ve read it.”

  “You’ve read Northanger Abbey?” I asked. When I met Alex, we’d chatted about Jane Austen books, and he’d told me he’d only read Pride and Prejudice in school, but had reread it before starting work on the film.

  “You said it was one of your favorites,” he said simply. “Seemed a good book to go on to after P & P.”

  “Hmm.” I looked down at the table, not sure what to say. I’d never had a guy read a book I’d mentioned.

  “So, would you like to see it?” Alex asked.

  “What?”

  “Bradley Castle.”

  “Oh, yes. Definitely. But I’m not sure about two miles as a starting point for my first bike ride. I might need to work up to that.”

  “Don’t do much biking around Hollywood?” His tone was teasing, not critical.

  “No. The gridlock on the freeways makes it impossible.” I looked around the crowded pub to the quiet street through the rain-streaked window. “That’s why I came here.”

  Alex smiled slowly at me, which for some reason made my insides go rather mushy. I looked away and caught Melissa’s gaze bouncing back and forth between us. She grinned quickly at me, then looked toward the window where Hector’s fuzzy outline went by, his shoulders hunched against the rain.

  “So he’s not a joiner?” Melissa asked.

  “Who?” Alex asked as he pulled his gaze away from me.

  “Hector.”

  “No. Far from it. If he didn’t cycle, I probably never would have met him.”

  “Is he married?”

  “I don’t know.” Alex shrugged. “I don’t think so. I haven’t seen a woman around, and he’s never mentioned his wife, but he’s not talkative.”

  “Interesting,” Melissa said as she stared at the rainy window.

  “How about some food?” Alex asked. We decided on fish and chips for all of us, and Alex left to turn in our order at the bar.

  As he walked away, Melissa sighed. “You’re lucky. He’s sweet.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, don’t pretend. After five seconds around you both, I can tell he likes you. He read a book for you,” she said, her tone awed. “That’s impressive.”

  “And a nineteenth century novel, at that.”

&nb
sp; Melissa nodded. “Yep. I can hardly get some guys to read my texts. He’s into you. And,” she studied my face for a moment, “right. You like him, too. Okay, then. He was too good for me anyway.” She tilted her head and looked across the room for a moment. “Or, more likely, I’m too bad for him,” she said with a wicked grin. “It looks like I need to find a reason to either cycle,” she shuddered, “or perhaps I’ll have a little computer problem.” She nodded. “Yeah, I like that one much better.”

  “You want to get to know Hector better?” I asked, surprised that Melissa had even given the guy a second look. “He seemed kind of,” I glanced up at her bright bangs and brow rings, “bland for you.”

  “Well, he’s obviously got something going for him if he lives in that big house on the hill. Have you seen that place?”

  “Only the roof.”

  “It’s huge.”

  “So Hector is the best prospect around here? Aren’t there any other guys on the crew or in the village?”

  “In the crew? No, Alex is the best of that lot. Everyone else is either married or way below my standards, and the only eligible bachelor in the village is that egotistical scholar twit.”

  “Rafe Farraday?”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “Really? You thought he was a twit? He was very nice to me today. Well, most of the time,” I amended, thinking of his impatience when he opened the door.

  “Well, you speak his language. You know all about Jane Austen and books and literature.” She used a super-posh accent when she said the word literature, managing to sound both snotty and affected. “Besides, you were scouting the location, right?”

  “Yes.” She lifted a shoulder. “He needs something from you. Of course he’s going to be nice to you. Once he gets it, then forget it.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, not sure what to say. “He’s very friendly with Becca Ford,” Melissa added.

  “Oh.” My opinion of Rafe Farraday nose-dived.

  “You know her?”

  “I met her when I was here last time.” Beautiful, wealthy, bored, pretentious, and interested in any man within a ten-yard radius about summed her up. I knew that Becca was married, but from what I’d heard, her banker husband rarely made the trip to Nether Woodsmoor. Apparently, he didn’t mind—or perhaps care—what Becca did in the village. “We didn’t get on well.” Especially after I pointed a murder investigation in her direction.

  Alex returned to the table and our conversation turned to work. When our food arrived, I pulled my plate toward me, but said, “My body clock is messed up from the time change. It doesn’t feel like dinner time.”

  “I don’t have that problem. I just eat all the time.” Melissa popped a golden strip of fried potato into her mouth.

  I swiveled toward Alex. “Tell me about Rafe. What’s this exclusive thing that Elise mentioned earlier? I asked him about it, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

  Alex glanced at Melissa. “Have you heard?”

  “About the letters? Oh, yeah,” she said, her tone casual.

  Alex leaned back. “Then I guess we can discuss it freely.”

  Melissa held her fish delicately by her fingertips. “There are no secrets on the set. I don’t know why he thinks he can keep it quiet.”

  “What letters?” I asked, picking up my fish. It was so hot that I dropped it.

  “Jane Austen’s lost letters. You know, the juicy ones,” Melissa said.

  “What?” I turned toward her, my food forgotten. “There are no lost Austen letters. Her sister Cassandra destroyed most of her correspondence.”

  Melissa licked her fingertips. “Well, Rafe says he has some.”

  I looked to Alex, who nodded. “The details were in the preproduction paperwork. He says he found them in a little village in Hampshire.”

  “Was it Chawton? That’s where Austen and her sister lived during the last years of their lives.”

  “No,” Alex said. “Somewhere else. Can’t remember the name. Anyway, says he bought the letters from some old woman who claimed she was descended from Austen’s niece, that they’d been handed down for generations and kept private, but the woman had fallen on hard times and needed to sell them, paid through the nose for them, apparently.”

  “That’s crazy. It has to be a hoax. There’s no way a letter—let alone many letters—from Jane Austen would have gone undiscovered for this long. She’s been dead for,” I paused, tripping over the mental math, and finally said, “nearly two hundred years. She’s one of the world’s most famous authors. If there were letters, they would have been found by now.”

  Alex grinned. “Passionate much?”

  “About Austen, yes.”

  Alex went back to eating. “Well, everything has been verified and authenticated. You know Elise’s reputation. She wouldn’t go out on a limb for something flim-flammy.”

  “I don’t know. It sounds too good to be true.” My fish had cooled enough that I could pick it up.

  Melissa wiped her fingers on her napkin. “You know there are all those news stories about lost masterpieces found in attics and garages. It could happen.”

  “I suppose,” I said, already thinking about how I could convince Rafe to let me have a look at the letters.

  Chapter 4

  TWO WOMEN IN BONNETS, GLOVES, and high-waisted gowns of sprigged muslin strolled arm-in-arm across the green lawn, the buttery stones of Parkview Hall glowing in the distance behind them. A pair of gentlemen in buff-colored breeches and dark coats with intricate cravats at their necks approached the ladies. Bows and curtsies were exchanged, then the gentlemen offered their arms, and the four people separated into pairs and strolled along the sand path.

  If I squinted and focused on the two couples, I could almost ignore the profusion of cameras, the tangle of cords, and the phalanx of people clothed in jeans, wrinkled shirts, and in Melissa’s case, a pair of fringed cowboy boots with a matching fringed T-shirt. The mass of people followed the four costumed actors as they promenaded through the lush grounds of Parkview Hall until the word, “Cut!” echoed through the air.

  The men in costume immediately ran fingers around their tight cravats, and Melissa sprang into action, fringe flapping, as she noted the position of each person and what each person had been doing during the shot. A woman with a tool-belt like apparatus that bulged with make-up brushes and cosmetics moved between the two Regency-costumed women, touching up their makeup.

  The clouds were gone, and the sun was out in full force today. One of my most closely guarded secrets was my desire to dress in Regency appropriate attire—just once. But watching the women in the bright sunlight was making me reconsider. The gloves, the bonnet, not to mention all the layers of fabric, must feel stifling.

  I saw Alex walk over the hill from the formal gardens area of the grounds and waved. He was pretty far away, but his longish brown hair and his easy stride were unmistakable. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his pale green oxford shirt to his elbows. He held something in each hand, but he lifted one hand in acknowledgement.

  He had walked me home last night from the pub and said a very formal, almost business-like, good-night from the bottom porch step. At the time, I’d been exhausted and hadn’t given the interaction more than a passing thought. But now that I wasn’t practically sleep-walking, I wondered if I was completely wrong about Alex and the signals I thought he’d been sending me. I couldn’t be. That look he’d given me in the pub… I hadn’t imagined that. And he’d read Northanger Abbey. Maybe he was just being gentlemanly last night. I watched him walk toward me, my head tilted, trying to work it out. Had I actually found a man who behaved in a “gentleman-like manner,” as Austen would call it? Did those men exist in the twenty-first century?

  He ducked under the branch of a huge oak tree where I was taking a break from the sun and handed me a to-go cup. He had been taking care of a traffic issue—something about a delivery truck that had to get to the house immediately.

  Running interference was ou
r main task today. On filming days, our job was to handle any problem that came up. I’d heard some location scouts call themselves fixers, and that was what our job entailed today. I’d already coordinated traffic issues with the local constable, checked the weather multiple times, and soothed an irritated neighbor down the road who hadn’t been happy when several people parked in his driveway, attempting to get close to the filming.

  “Coffee. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” I sipped and sighed blissfully. “Not my normal lunch beverage, but I’m barely keeping my eyes open.” Okay, I wasn’t sure about the gentleman-like restraint on my doorstep last night, but anyone who brings me coffee goes up in my estimation.

  “Yeah. That five a.m. departure was rough,” Alex said, running his hand over the layer of stubble on his chin and jaw.

  “I figure I’ll be living on naps for a few days anyway.” Alex had picked me up this morning in his sporty, if slightly creaky, vintage red MG convertible, and we’d put up the signs that directed the cast and crew to the filming location, met with the local constable about traffic issues, and then checked on the outdoor filming location to make sure set-up was going according to plan for filming.

  Alex reached in the pocket of his brown cargo pants for his keys. “We’re about to break for lunch. I need to go by the house and let Slink out. Want to ride with me?” he asked, referring to his dog, a greyhound with a mostly mellow disposition. “I have Henry—you remember him—Doug’s son at the inn? I have him let her out and take her for a run on the days I can’t be home or bring her with me, but he can’t do it today.”

  “Sure.” I knew Alex sometimes brought Slink when he was scouting locations, but it wouldn’t be possible to have her along on a day as busy as this one was.

  A few minutes later, I met Alex at his car. I’d been pretty groggy earlier and hadn’t done much more than drop into the car seat and work on keeping my eyelids open, but now as I slid into the passenger seat, I noticed that Alex still had an array of sticky notes dotting the dashboard. One of them had my name on it, underlined twice, with my flight number and arrival time.