Death in the English Countryside

by Sara Rosett

  “Yes. It was wonderful. Just flew in today, and I was starving after the airplane food.”

  She was a plump woman in her thirties. Her dark hair had a reddish tint to it, sort of a black cherry color. Long bangs dipped below her eyebrows while the rest of her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a green apron with the name LOUISE stitched on it. She grimaced. “That’s not food.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “You’re American?”

  “Just in from Los Angeles.”

  She paused, as I hoped she would, my empty plate in one hand, the bar towel in the other. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake I’d made at the car rental counter and dive in asking questions. I hoped to pique her interest. Surely visitors from Los Angeles weren’t all that frequent in Nether Woodsmoor?

  “Are you with those other blokes? The movie people?”

  Bingo. I tried to keep any eagerness out of my voice. It was no secret that Kevin and Mr. O’Leery were in England looking at locations, but I didn’t want to get into why I was looking for Kevin. In this day of Internet communication, a single tweet could blow apart the careful fiction that Marci and I had constructed. Of course, Louise didn’t look like the tweeting type, but you never knew. If there was one thing I’d learned being in and out of people’s homes and lives was that people were endlessly surprising. For all I knew, Louise might run a popular blog and have tons of followers, so I only said, “Yeah, I know them through work.” It was absolutely true. “One in particular. Tall, bulky guy with dark hair and a boisterous personality. Kevin. I heard he was here. Have you seen him?”

  “Not lately.” She looked out the window as she considered. “It’s been several days since he came in. At least before the weekend.” She pointed the towel at me. “It was Friday. Lunch crowd. Don’t think he stayed long. You might ask Doug at the Inn. He’ll know.”

  I said I’d do that and wondered how long it would take for the information to get back to her that I was a guest at that same inn. I hoped that news that I’d picked up Kevin’s luggage wouldn’t be included. It would look odd. I took a final sip of my water—I usually stuck to water after a long flight to rehydrate—and decided that I had to contact the local scout Kevin had worked with. I’d really thought I’d find Kevin snoring off an awful hangover in a dark corner of the pub. I’d started the trip feeling more exasperated with Kevin than worried about him, but now my level of worry was growing.

  I pulled out my phone and realized I didn’t have the local scout’s phone number. It was back at the inn.

  On my way out the door, I asked Louise if there were any more pubs in the area. “I want to visit as many as I can while I’m here.”

  She’d dropped off some pints at a table and wiped her hands on the bar towel as she answered. “The Peacock is around the corner. Then there’s the King George. To get to it, go up the main road here to the river, then take a right on the street that runs alongside the river. That will take you to the King George.” She pointed away from the river. “About five miles up the main road is the Coach and Horses. The Old Crown is beyond it.”

  I thanked her and left. It was fully dark when I emerged. The temperature had dropped with the sunset, and the cold air felt like a slap, but there were still a few people moving around the village on foot and in their cars.

  I could feel the tiredness from the time change and the flight creeping up on me. My limbs felt heavy, but I had to check the other pubs. And I had to do it as soon as possible. The sooner I found Kevin, the sooner I could call Marci, and we could put an end to damage control. I walked up the street toward the river, passed closed shops and a few restaurants doing a desultory business. I bet that when summer came, there were café tables on the sidewalk filled with hikers and bikers.

  I found The Peacock and took a quick peek inside. The low-ceiling room was crowded with tables, but there were only a few customers, none of whom were Kevin. I continued up the main street until I reached the river, then turned right and walked along the street that fronted the river. It was a pedestrian zone, a wide, paved area with benches spaced every few feet facing the water. Dark and opaque, the water swooshed by, creating a low, constant murmur in the night air.

  I spotted the King George. Light from its windows fell across the benches by the water. I didn’t even have to go inside the pub. I was able to look in the windows and see that Kevin wasn’t there.

  I dropped onto one of the benches to consider my options. I really didn’t have any options. I had to check out the other pubs, but I wasn’t eager to hit the road again. I delayed a few moments and watched the water as it swept by. I shivered. I bet the water was freezing, despite it being March. Even the Pacific wasn’t actually warm this time of year, so a river in cool, rainy England was probably frigid.

  A couple, cuddling and giggling, meandered by, then sharp and anxious words from another pair, this one mismatched in height, caught my attention. Light from the King George picked out the woman’s grayish-brown hair and her busty figure, but didn’t fall on the guy. He sounded young, and his nervous tone carried over the low murmur of the water. “…don’t feel right about it now. Witnessing—”

  The woman cut him off. “We’ve done nothing wrong. Remember that. Only signed a paper. No shame in that.” She lowered her voice. “It will all work out, you’ll see.” Their words faded as they moved beyond me. The door of the pub opened and a group came out, debating the merits of driving to a restaurant in Upper Benning versus going to the inn where I was staying. The inn won out, and the group moved away.

  I lugged myself up from the bench and followed the group back to the inn, but when they went inside for dinner, I got in the rental, steeled my nerves, and pulled out onto the road again, mentally chatting, left, stay left. I played follow the leader at the roundabouts, shadowing the cars in front of me as I fought my instincts to drive on the right.

  I arrived at the Coach and Horses, sat at the bar, and ordered a basket of fries—chips in the local vernacular—and a Diet Coke, breaking my water-only rule, but I needed the caffeine. The place wasn’t full, and it wasn’t hard to work in a mention of Kevin into the conversation with the man behind the bar. He hadn’t seen Kevin, but informed me that there was a new gastropub on the next street. I finished my chips, walked down the charming street of stone houses and shops, and had a look at the gastropub, which turned out to be the Old Crown that Louise had mentioned. I didn’t even have to go in to know it wasn’t the kind of place that appealed to Kevin. He didn’t go in for fancy gourmet food. I made a quick trip in to ask about reservations. As I got my answers, I scanned the room. Kevin wasn’t there, and the hostess-type kid didn’t remember seeing him.

  The caffeine from the soda helped me stay alert on the quiet drive back through the dark countryside. I put in plenty of long days, so I was used to pressing on through exhaustion, but I was glad when the car’s headlights illuminated the sign for the inn. I checked the parking lot, but it was even emptier than it had been earlier. I could tell at a glance that there was no new black Mercedes.

  I stifled a yawn as I waved a greeting to the blond-haired teen manning the reception desk and went up the narrow stairs, setting off a chorus of squeaks and groans as my feet hit the aged wood. I couldn’t fight the jetlag anymore and felt as if I was moving in slow motion. I entered my cozy room and wanted to crawl into bed, but I needed to get in touch with the local scout…what was his name? I scrubbed my hand across my face and blinked hard to keep my eyes open as I searched the pile of papers Marci had given me. Alex. That was it. Alex Norcutt.

  I didn’t dare sit down on the bed before I contacted him, so I made myself stand while I tapped out a text, telling him I was in town and asking if he could meet with me in the morning. I’ll just curl up here for a little bit, I decided, snuggling into the soft pillows on one of the twin beds. See if he replies back. I’d get up in a few minutes to unpack, change into my t-shirt and sleep pants, and take off my makeup.


  ***

  I jerked awake, my heart thudding. Confused and disoriented, I looked around the strange room. A narrow column of sunlight streamed into the room through a gap in the heavy drapes. Parrot chintz.

  Ah, yes. It all came back: England. Kevin missing. I looked at the clock. Hmm…my quick nap had turned into a twelve-hour marathon.

  A knock sounded on the door, and I struggled into a sitting position. Had I ordered breakfast the night before? No, I was sure I hadn’t. Sometime during the night I’d burrowed under the covers. I flung them back and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The knock sounded again, louder this time. I pulled my sweater, which had twisted around my body, back into place as I made my way blearily to the door.

  There wasn’t a peephole in the heavy wooden door, so I opened it a crack with the chain on, expecting to see either Doug or the blond teenager.

  “You’ve got the wrong room—” I broke off. The man, his hand raised to continue knocking, had light brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, and was sipping from a lidded to-go cup. The aroma of dark roast wafted through the gap.

  “You’re not Kate Sharp?”

  “What? Who are you? How do you know my name?”

  He stepped forward, his free hand extended.

  Reflexively, I closed the door, cutting off whatever he was saying.

  I leaned into the doorframe. “What’s your name?”

  “Alex. Alex Norcutt.” He raised his voice, and his words carried through the door. “You sent me a text.” His tone rose on the last words questioningly.

  I hurried over to the bed, where I found my phone under several pillows. The screen informed me I had several unread text messages, all from Alex Norcutt. Grimacing, I scrolled through them. Yes, he was in town and could meet me in the morning. How about nine? After a gap of an hour, he texted again, Nine still good to meet? And, lastly, about an hour earlier he’d texted, Stopping by the inn to see if you still want to meet.

  I went back to the door, unhooked the chain, and opened it. “Sorry. I’m still on L.A. time.” There really had been no call to slam the door in his face. He wasn’t threatening at all. He wore a denim shirt untucked over a white T-shirt with a pair of jeans. A worn leather jacket, combat boots, and a backpack slung casually over one shoulder completed his look, which was classic film crew casual. I would have recognized it, if I hadn’t been so groggy.

  He shrugged his shoulder slightly as he reached down to the floor to keep the backpack from slipping forward. “I thought you might be.” He picked up a second cup that had been by his foot. “It’s French Vanilla. That’s about as fancy as we get coffeewise here in Nether Woodsmoor.” He was clean-shaven and his hair was slightly damp. I opened the door wider and caught a whiff of a clean soapy scent as he moved into the room.

  “Thanks, that’s wonderful.” I took a sip and closed the door behind him. I pointed to the floor. “Watch out for the suitcase.” Crossing to the window, I pulled the curtains back, flooding the room with light.

  He paused, taking in the disarray of clothing spilling out of the bags scattered across the floor. “I see you’re an aficionado of the Kevin Dunn school of organization.”

  “Ah, no. Actually, I’m a neat freak.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “Really. I am. I drive people crazy.” I wrinkled my nose. “If things are put away, I feel better.”

  “So this room must be making you insane.”

  “Now that I’m awake, it is.” I took another sip of the coffee and finger combed my hair out of my face. “Sorry about the mess. I was looking—” I stopped abruptly. Did I want to tell him about Kevin? I ran a critical eye over Alex. He waited for me to continue with an easy, relaxed posture, his open gaze resting attentively on me.

  “Can you give me about ten minutes? I’m glad you stopped by. I want to talk to you, but I’d like to get cleaned up. Can I buy you breakfast?”

  “Sure. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  I shut the door behind him, then grabbed some clothes and dashed into the bathroom where I gave myself half a second to check my reflection. Yep, it was as bad as I’d imagined. My eyeliner had smudged, giving me raccoon eyes, and my hair, except for being dark brown, had a definite Einstein-esque quality as it stood out around my head. I turned to the claw-footed tub that had been converted to a shower with a curtain on a circular rod overhead. The showerhead was attached to flexible metal tubing and had a mind of its own.

  I conquered the showerhead, then pulled on jeans and a lightweight white sweater. I shoved my feet into flats as I combed my hair. It was still damp, but it would dry straight—it always did, no matter what the weather conditions were or what hairstyling jujitsu I applied—so I left it as it was and took a few minutes to add a little makeup. After shoving Kevin’s clothes back in his suitcase and aligning it with the go-bag against the wall near my suitcase, I felt better. By the time I finished the last of the coffee and slid into a chair across from Alex in the inn’s breakfast area, I felt almost human again.

  “Impressive,” Alex said.

  “I hope the transformation wasn’t that amazing.”

  “No, I meant it’s impressive that it really did only take you ten minutes. I expected to be down here for at least an hour.”

  “There’s only so much damage control a girl can do.”

  “You look great. Heck, you looked great up there, groggy and confused.” He said the words casually, but his focused concentration was on me again, and I felt a blush heat my cheeks. He held his body in a relaxed, lounging posture, but there was an alertness in his gaze that reminded me of the big cats at the San Diego Wild Animal Park, the way they draped over branches, their bodies loose, but their eyes sharply observant.

  “Right. With my matted hair and drool on my chin,” I said, feeling more flustered for some reason.

  “Self-deprecation is a habit with you, is it? You were charmingly rumpled.”

  “That’s a very nice way of saying I was a bit on the scruffy side, but thank you for the compliment.” Inwardly, I cringed. My voice sounded too formal, prissy even. Alex’s eyebrows flared slightly, and he leaned back a bit.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t mean to be rude. I’m a bit…out of sorts.”

  “Hey, no problem,” he said easily. “I was just trying to say you have that Audrey Hepburn thing going on. You know, you look classy no matter what. I’ve made you uncomfortable again. Sorry. I’m not trying to hit on you. I’m a photographer. I notice these things.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks.”

  The waiter arrived, the blond teen from the day before, and I tried to fight down the feeling that I’d been rude as I opted for a continental breakfast while Alex ordered a full English breakfast.

  The menus were removed, and Alex crossed his arms on the table. “Now. What can I help you with?”

  “Why don’t you bring me up to date with what’s happened here? How did it go?”

  “Great. We got the Meryton and Rosings Park scenes sorted right away. We’re using the historic center of a town called Buntley for the Meryton street scenes and the assembly room. There’s a rather garish mansion up toward Sheffield—Cortland Hall—that has a pretentious vibe, which fitted perfectly for Rosings. Mr. O’Leery is keen to stay as close to the book as possible.”

  “Yes, that would be exactly right for Rosings Park. Austen describes Pemberly as having less splendor but more elegance than Rosings.”

  “Ah, yes. Mr. Dunn said you were the literary scholar and Austen expert.”

  “Not a scholar and certainly not an Austen expert.”

  “Well, you’ll know more than me. I’ve only read one of her books.”

  “Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Of course. I had to read it in school, and I’m afraid I took nothing away from it except that I enjoyed Mrs. Bennet. I reread it for this assignment.”

  “And what did you think of it on your second reading?”

  “On the whole, I liked it. My last proj
ect had a reincarnation of Mr. Collins on the crew.” He mock shuddered. “I admire the way Austen captured personalities.”

  “I think that’s one reason she’s still popular. Her characters are so lifelike. Austen wrote about people, flaws and strengths and all. And her characters grow and change through the books.”

  “Self-realization, you mean? Yes, I can see that with Elizabeth and Darcy, too. Of course, speaking as a guy, P & P could have had more explosions and car chases or something like that…the Regency equivalent would be what? A curricle race? Although, I don’t know what a curricle is. I think the production manager mentioned them.”

  “It was the Ferrari of the day, a light, fast chaise—or carriage—with two wheels. Young men showed off their horses and driving skills with them. If you want more drama, you should read Austen’s juvenilia.”

  “Juvenilia?”

  “Stories and plays she wrote in her teens to entertain her family. Plenty of beheadings, biting off fingers, attempted murder. Right up your alley.”

  “See, you are an expert. You know what juvenilia is and you know that Austen wrote some.”

  “Not really. I do love Austen. I will admit that. And I have picked up some period details. Anyway…what about the other locations?”

  “Right. Second day, I showed them possibilities for Netherfield, Longbourn, and Pemberly. For the Netherfield exteriors, Mr. O’Leery liked a country home not too far from here called Drayton Park. The choice for Pemberly is even closer, Parkview Hall. It’s just up the road, and we think it can do double duty for some of the Netherfield interiors as well. And that left Longbourn. Why don’t we have Kevin join us for the details on the last choice? It’s a bit tricky. He’s around, right?”

  “You’ve seen him?”