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

by Sara Rosett

  I saw the man that Alex had introduced to me at the pub hefting one of the flat stones. I couldn’t remember his name. Henry? Harry? No, neither of those. He saw me and gave me a nod of acknowledgement. I raised a hand then stepped through the gate and worked to latch it back into place. The path wasn’t deserted. There was no need to be worried.

  I breathed in deeply as I walked toward Nether Woodsmoor. The sun filtered through the tree branches that were mostly still bare. The bits of sky I could see through the oak branches were vibrantly blue and the day was warm, but not too hot. Ivy climbed up the dry stone walls that edged both sides of the path, and here and there a spray of honeysuckle tumbled over the wall from the cottages’ back gardens. It was a picture perfect day on the outskirts of an English village. The beauty of nature soothed me. It always did. This landscape was so different from the rugged hills around Southern California or the waves of the Pacific, but being outdoors worked its magic on me. The transition to a new place and a new job, Elise’s hostility, the fire, the poor woman who had died—all those things were still there in the background, but the knot of stress inside me seemed to loosen a bit as I strode along.

  I came to the parking area for the bike path and cut through it into Nether Woodsmoor. The parking area was empty except for a few cars, which I supposed wasn’t that unusual since it was the middle of the work week. I edged between a gray Volvo with a bike rack and a silver hatchback then stopped to consult the map posted on the sign at the trail head, which besides having the trail map on it, also had a few of Nether Woodsmoor’s streets.

  I got my bearings and continued down the narrow sloping street that ran from the parking area into Nether Woodsmoor. After two more blocks, I reached the grocery store. It was like the library, a stone building on the outside, but totally refurbished and modern on the inside. Not a wooden beam in sight. I picked up a hand basket and collected the basics: coffee, cereal, milk, bread, ham and roast beef for sandwiches, and some fruit. I grabbed a package of spaghetti and red sauce, figuring that would be enough of a load to get back to the cottage. I went to the checkout, thinking that perhaps I should have driven Alex’s car after all. I sat my basket down on the conveyer belt and began to unload it, half-listening to the cashier and the customer in front of me as they chatted.

  “Having a nice dinner, are we?” the cashier said in a flirty voice.

  “Oh no, nothing special,” the customer replied, and I looked up. It was Rafe, swiping his credit card through the payment slot.

  The cashier, a pretty middle-aged woman, scanned a bottle of wine and set it down beside a package of steaks, a bundle of asparagus, and a long loaf of bread. She made a tsking sound. “Go on with you. Steak and wine.” She put the items in a reusable carrier bag. “I’d like to have a nothing special dinner like that.”

  “Perhaps we should dine together,” Rafe said, a teasing grin on his face.

  The cashier tilted her head. “My husband would have something to say about that, I’m sure.”

  Rafe winked. “That’s a shame.”

  The cashier gave him one last smile and turned to me. Rafe glanced my way, then did a double-take. “Well, hello. I didn’t see you there. Stocking up?”

  The cashier passed my cereal and milk over the scanner. “Yes. My cupboard was literally bare. How’s the…um…writing going?”

  “Excellent.” He stuffed the receipt in his pocket and picked up the bag. “Just taking a break. I’ve got to get right back at it.”

  I nodded. Rafe said good-bye and turned to leave, but the cashier called out. “Oh, that timer you wanted. We got some in this morning.”

  “Timer?”

  “Yes, for the lights.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks. I’ll get one next time.” Rafe raised his hand with the bag, a good-bye gesture, and paced away quickly.

  I added two reusable shopping bags to my pile of items so I could carry everything back to the cottage and noticed the cashier wasn’t nearly as friendly to me as she’d been to Rafe. I retraced my route back to the cottage, again going through the parking area at the bike path, nodding a greeting to the riders who were stowing their bikes on the rack of their Volvo. To give them plenty of space, I walked around the other car and continued up to the walking path, enjoying the birds flitting through the lattice of tree branches overhead and then swooping down into the bushes and hedgerows, which were covered in tiny buds. But at the back of my mind was the image of Rafe chatting so casually with the cashier. He didn’t appear to have a care in the world.

  By the time I got to my cottage, the straps of the carrier bags were cutting into my fingers, but I was glad I’d walked. The scenery was worth it, and it felt good to get a little exercise. The group working on the stone wall was gone, and the repair was complete. The wall was straight and true, the flat rocks positioned in an interlocking pattern and held in place by larger, rounder stones placed atop the flat ones. A small sign perched over the wall where they’d been working. I walked over and read it. “Repaired by the Nether Woodsmoor Historical Society.”

  I turned away and entered the back garden. Elise would probably not approve of me running to the store during the day, but I hadn’t taken a lunch break. I slapped together a sandwich and ate it while tapping out emails to my mother and several friends in California. I kept my messages breezy and general, avoiding any mention of the murder next door. Thankfully, my mother only remembered what she wanted to remember. She was upset with me for moving (even temporarily) out of her potential matchmaking zone, and had waved me off or had changed the subject anytime I tried to talk to her about the job in England, firmly believing that if she didn’t acknowledge the subject, it wouldn’t happen. She had probably also blocked out the name of the village where I was working, so I wasn’t worried that she’d hear about the murder, not that a death in a small English village would make the news in Southern California anyway.

  I cleared up my dishes, sent a text to Mary and copied Elise on it, informing them that I had to stop by the church hall and sign a statement for the police, then I’d be on my way to Parkview Hall. I sent another text to Alex, telling him I would have his MG back at Parkview Hall soon. I double-checked my messages, but there was nothing from him. I put my phone away with a frown and steeled myself to concentrate on driving.

  I zipped through Nether Woodsmoor and actually took the correct exit at the roundabout, which dropped me off at the church. I found a parking area in the back and wedged the MG into a slot among rows of dark sedans. The red sports car stood out like a pimple.

  The church hall, which was in a separate building from the church with its towering spire, reminded me of a location shoot. Extension cords and phone wires snaked across the hardwood floor between several almost bare tables, each with only a computer and phone. No photos or posters, or personal mementos. A general air of bustle and movement filled the place, echoing up to the high ceiling as chairs squeaked, voices murmured on the phone, and footsteps tapped quickly across the floor. It had the atmosphere of temporary activity that permeated film sets. A few days and the whole thing could be dismantled and gone.

  I gave my name to the man seated at a table positioned directly in front of the door and said, “I need to sign my statement about the woman I saw in the lane behind my cottage, the woman who died.” He directed me to a row of chairs lining the wall and said someone would be with me in a moment. The man who’d been working on the stone wall was seated in a chair pulled up to a table near me. On the other side of the table from him, a woman in uniform asked him, “What time did you arrive at the pub?”

  I was surprised that the police were interviewing people in the main room, but Nether Woodsmoor was a small village. The church hall was probably the biggest building in town. I guessed they were making do with what they had. I supposed I’d be next up to fill the chair after the man left. I cast about trying to remember the guy’s name. Harold? Howard, maybe? I couldn’t call him the Stone Wall Guy.

  I wasn’t used
to remembering my neighbor’s names. In California, I barely knew my neighbor’s faces. The rotation in and out of the apartment community was as constant as a revolving door, and a general wave or half-smile of greeting at the communal mailbox sufficed, but Nether Woodsmoor was a smaller, more settled community. I needed to work on putting names to faces. I leaned forward as subtly as possible so I could listen in better. Perhaps the woman would mention the man’s name.

  “I’m not sure. Probably between seven-thirty and seven-forty-five.”

  “And was Mr. Farraday at the pub when you arrived?”

  “No, I saw him come in later.”

  “How much later?”

  “Honestly, I have no idea. I didn’t look at my watch. I would guess it was probably around eight.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lyons. I’ll print this up and have you sign it. If you’ll give me a moment.”

  I leaned back in my chair. Hector Lyons, that was it. Such a dramatic, heroic name. It seemed a bit of a mismatch for the slender, washed out man with his hair and beard fading from blond to gray.

  An exterior door at the side of the room opened. Quimby strode in and the atmosphere changed slightly. It was as if everyone sat up a little straighter and focused more ardently on their tasks. Quimby quickly consulted with a few people around the room, spotted me, and headed across the floor in my direction. “Ms. Sharp, is Mr. Norcutt here?”

  “No.”

  “But that is his MG in the car park?”

  “Yes. I drove it here. He let me borrow it today.” I stood up. “He wasn’t at Parkview Hall?”

  “No, I haven’t been able to reach him. I went out there and was told he’d gone to Upper Benning to fetch another generator. How did he get to Upper Benning?”

  “The production has several rental cars. He probably used one of those,” I explained.

  “Have you been in contact with him today?”

  “No, I left him a message, but haven’t heard back.”

  Quimby’s eyebrows squished down into a frown. “Please let me know if you hear from him.”

  A man broke into our conversation. “Excuse me, Inspector.” Eagerness pulsed through his words. “I think I’ve found her.”

  Chapter 9

  QUIMBY AND THE OTHER MAN moved a few steps away as another voice drew my attention. “Ms. Sharp? This way please. We can take care of your statement now.”

  I looked over and found Sergeant Olney waiting for me. He’d worked with Quimby on the previous case I’d been involved in, and I’d talked to him a few times.

  He could easily have slipped onto the film set. He would have fit in, appearance-wise, among the talent. He was one of the Beautiful People and looked like leading man material straight from central casting—tall, broad-shouldered, square jaw, brilliant blue eyes under a swath of black hair, and a killer smile. He was so good-looking that you had to stare at him a moment or two, while you wondered what he was doing walking around with all of us normal, average-looking people.

  I blinked and pulled myself together. “Oh, right.” I looked around as I followed Olney to a nearby table. The female investigator I’d assumed would talk to me still huddled with Hector Lyons.

  Olney gestured me to a seat on the far side of a table. “Inspector Quimby sent me the details of your statement earlier. I’ve got it typed up. Let me print it then you can go over it.”

  As I sat down to wait, Quimby and the other man strode over to a table beside me.

  “What have you got?” Quimby asked him.

  The man tapped the computer screen. “Amy Brown,” he said, his voice carrying in his excitement. “Resident of Manchester. Came down with her local cycling group and stayed in the West Farmhouse B & B. Works at a software development company. She took off work early yesterday and hadn’t been in today. No holiday scheduled and hasn’t called in.”

  “Good work,” Quimby said.

  “It was just a matter of checking each one of the names on the cycling group’s registration. She’s the only one who hasn’t turned up at work today.”

  “Get the details over to the medical examiner’s office. Morriston will want to get on those dental records straight away. Next of kin?”

  “None listed that I can find. Possibly an orphan?”

  “Hmm. Keep checking. What about transportation? How did she get here? She had a driving license.” He pointed at the screen. “Any record of a vehicle registration?”

  “Yes. A gray Citroen DS3.”

  “All right. Let’s sweep the parking areas again. There’s no train service here, so she either drove in or took the bus. If we don’t find anything, we’ll move the search outward from here. You coordinate that. Pull Hicks and Dooly in to help you.”

  I heard a familiar voice and looked over my shoulder. Alex stood at the table near the door. I raised my hand and caught his eye. The officer waved him to the chairs and went back to his paperwork. Alex came through the desks toward me.

  “I was getting worried about you,” I said. “I called you and sent a text.”

  “I can’t find my phone. I think it might be in the car.”

  I pulled the keys out of my pocket. “Here. I’ve had my fill of driving today. I guess you’ve heard the police want to talk to you?”

  “Yes, I got the message as soon as I got back to Parkview Hall. Let me get my phone. I’ll be right back,” Alex said, turning away.

  “Mr. Norcutt,” a voice said sharply and heads across the room looked toward Quimby, who closed the short distance between himself and Alex, his long strides quick and purposeful. “We’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “Yes. Sorry about that. I lost my phone. It may be in my car, which I lent to Kate today. I was on my way to check.” He held up the keys.

  “A few questions for you first.”

  “It won’t take a moment,” Alex said easily.

  “It will have to wait.” Quimby’s expression was serious and his manner reserved and formal.

  Alex pocketed the keys and matched Quimby’s frosty tone. “All right. How can I help you?”

  “First, what were you discussing with Ms. Sharp?” Quimby asked.

  “My phone and the fact that you wanted to see me.”

  “What else?” Quimby asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Quimby looked at me, eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, that’s all. I said I’d tried to call him, and he said he thought his phone might be in the car so I gave him the keys.”

  Quimby’s gaze bobbed back and forth from Alex’s face to mine. “Mr. Norcutt, if you’ll come with me.” He turned. Alex sent me a puzzled look before following him. Olney was coming back through the tables toward me, holding several sheets of A4 paper. Quimby had a word with him then directed Alex to an interior door at the back of the room.

  Olney gave me the statement to read then went directly to the man positioned at the front door and talked to him quietly. Both of their glances strayed to me once, and I quickly focused on my statement with the feeling that the guy up front was in trouble for letting Alex talk to me instead of keeping us separate, which sent a little spark of worry through me. Why would they care if Alex and I talked about his phone?

  I shook my head and focused on reading through my statement. I finished, signed it, and handed it over to Olney. He asked about what Alex and I had talked about as well. “His lost phone.”

  Olney nodded, made a note in a small notebook, and then told me I could leave.

  “I’ll wait for Alex.”

  “That’s fine. You can have a seat along the wall.”

  It was a long wait. The noise level in the room dropped. Several officers had left—probably out searching Nether Woodsmoor for Amy Brown’s car—and Hector had left. It felt like it was near closing time at an office, but I wondered if they actually closed down. Maybe they ran twenty-four/seven with a smaller number of officers during the night hours.

  At the thirty-minute mark, the door opened and Alex emerged, a shell-sho
cked look on his face. He came toward me slowly, walking as if he had been given horrible news. Quimby was a few steps behind him, but caught up and passed him, coming straight to me.

  “One more question, Ms. Sharp.”

  “Okay,” I said cautiously.

  “This way.” He motioned me toward the door where he’d taken Alex.

  I hesitated then moved toward it. When my path crossed Alex’s, I paused. Quimby made as if to intervene, but I said quickly to Alex, “You’ll wait for me here?”

  “What?” He blinked and focused on me.

  “Quimby has another question for me. Will you wait for me here?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Alex said.

  The door led to a short hallway with two offices. Quimby took me to the first one on the right, indicated a visitor’s chair then moved behind the desk, which was covered with files, papers, and a map. He scooted his chair close to the desk, linked his fingers together, and rested them on the pile of paper. “Why didn’t you tell us about the length of Mr. Norcutt’s phone call?”

  My mind was full of lost cell phones. “What call? He’d lost his phone.”

  “Not today. Last evening during your dinner.”

  “Oh. But I did tell you about it. He got a call and stepped outside.”

  “And was gone for around ten minutes, he estimates. Would you agree on the time frame?”

  “Yes,” I said reluctantly. I had a bad feeling about this.

  “That is a long time for a dinner partner to be gone. Why didn’t you mention it?” He tapped the paper with my signature.

  “Honestly? You didn’t ask me how long he was gone,” I said carefully, thinking back to when Quimby had been in my cottage earlier today. “You wanted to know about Rafe. I was more focused on trying to remember things related to him. I thought you were interested in his movements.”

  “Yes, we were at that time.” His slight emphasis on the word were had me frowning.

  “You were interested, but you’re not now—” I broke off as the penny dropped. They’d eliminated Rafe. “You mean Rafe isn’t a suspect?”