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

by Sara Rosett

  Chapter 3

  CONSIDERING THE LAST-MINUTE NATURE of the switch in Arabella’s lodging situation, it was all done with a minimum of fuss, except for Elise’s constant reminders that the whole thing was “highly irregular.” Faxes and emails whipped back and forth between Arabella Emsley’s people and our team. For the better part of a day, my email dinged constantly because I was copied on every piece of correspondence.

  I’d hoped that once the new lodging was arranged I might be able to slip out of the role of go-between, but Torrie emphasized that Arabella wanted me involved in everything that went on between her and the Jane Austen production. So, two days later, I stood on the drive at Tate House in the shade of the trees as a black SUV rolled into view. A very specific email had arrived in my inbox yesterday with their arrival time as well as the information that Ms. Emsley wanted me to be on site at Tate House—and no one else. I’d puzzled over the last line of the email, not sure it was serious. I opened my email on my phone and reread it. “When Hibbert arrives the code word is ocean.”

  While people had entrusted me with their homes and workplaces for filming, no one had ever gone so far as to give me a code word—or even a secret handshake—so I couldn’t help but wonder if it was some sort of joke. Was there a camera hidden somewhere in the vicinity to record my gullibility? But then again, it could be completely serious. I didn’t deal with movie stars often, but I’d heard from other people in the business that they could be quite paranoid.

  A man in a dark suit and white shirt with an open collar emerged from the driver’s seat, and I went to meet him. From a distance, he looked the very picture of corporate casual, but as I got closer, I saw a small silver hoop in one earlobe. He tugged on his shirt collar and shifted his neck, which made me think that the suit wasn’t his favorite choice of attire. I held out my hand. “Hello, I’m Kate Sharp.”

  “Chester Hibbert. Ms. Emsley’s security detail.” Dark eyes under dark brows scanned my face as he crushed my hand in a quick shake then shifted his attention to the treed area around the front of the house. He was probably in his late thirties. He had a slightly crooked nose and a shaved head, which was balanced with a layer of stubble on his face. He was a few inches shorter than me, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in width. His shoulders and chest indicated he spent long hours at the gym.

  He seemed to be waiting for me to say something else. It had to be the code word thing, but I suddenly realized that I had no idea how the code word worked. Was I supposed to say the word or ask him to tell me the word? “The code word…?” I said, tentatively.

  His face cleared, and he raised his eyebrows expectantly, clearly waiting for me to finish the sentence.

  “Ocean,” I said, and he nodded approvingly as if I’d answered a difficult question correctly in class.

  “You’re it?” he asked. “No one else around?”

  “Just me. You’re American?” I asked, surprised by his lack of accent. I’d expected a Brit.

  “Canadian.” He tilted his shaved head down toward the drive. “How long has that gate been open?”

  “Only since I came up here. Ten minutes or so.”

  “And no one else entered after you?”

  “No.” I glanced toward the SUV, looking for Arabella and Torrie, but the doors remained closed. I couldn’t see anything through the dark tinted windows.

  “Good.”

  Seeing my glance at the SUV, he said, “That’s the decoy. Ms. Emsley will be here as soon as I give the all-clear. If you’ll wait here, I’ll check the perimeter and house.”

  “Oh, I see,” I said, but I didn’t understand at all. Did an actress need security this tight? Even if she had annoyed her thuggish ex-boyfriend?

  “Have you been inside?”

  “Yes. I checked everything.” Habits die hard, and I’d made a quick tour of the house before the arrival time. I made sure everything was in place and took additional pictures of the rooms. It was an impulse that came from being a location scout. Even though I knew we wouldn’t be filming in the house, I wanted a record of the rooms before Arabella arrived. I was pretty sure that once they left, it would be my job to make sure everything was in order before Claire did a walk-through of the house.

  “I’ll do the same. Key?” He held out a beefy hand.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  He frowned, but didn’t say anything except, “Can you close the gate from here? Do you have a remote?”

  “Yes, right here.” I pulled it out from the bundle of keys. Claire had reluctantly handed everything over to me that morning in front of the gate along with the codes that unlocked the gates and the doors. I’d jotted everything down in my notebook and said, “Okay, we’re good to go,” but she didn’t take the hint. She’d wanted to be on the property and show Arabella through the house herself. I practically had to shove Claire into her car—apologizing all the while—but reminding her that I was only following instructions.

  I hit the button on the remote to close the gate as Chester strode off across the bit of green lawn that ringed the house. He disappeared around the side of Tate House, and I inched close enough to the SUV that I could see through the tinted windows. No other passengers waited inside, but luggage filled the back. I could just make out the distinctive Louis Vuitton pattern on the luggage.

  I stepped back and waited until he appeared on the opposite side of the house. He went to the front door and disappeared inside. I crossed the tarmac and followed him inside. “Everything should be fine,” I said.

  “Right.” He continued through the rooms. I trailed behind him as he checked each room, opening closet doors and checking locks on exterior windows and doors. I made a few more attempts at conversation, but each time I got a one-word reply like “fine,” or “good.” I stopped talking and simply followed.

  When we’d made a complete circuit, he nodded to me again and made a call on his cell phone. “It’s clear,” he said and hung up. Definitely a man of few words.

  I followed him outside. He opened the back of the SUV and heaved out the luggage. I blinked as he stacked overnight bags, suitcases of every size, a huge travel trunk, and even a circular hatbox. “That’s an impressive amount of luggage for a few days.”

  “Yes.” Chester slung the strap of one of the smaller bags over his shoulder, picked up a suitcase in either hand, and carried them into the house.

  The sound of a car engine filled the air and then a sharp blast on a horn sounded. Arabella had arrived. I clicked the button, the gate swung back, and a second black SUV roared up the incline. The front passenger door opened, and a small dark-haired woman hopped to the ground. For a second, I thought it was Arabella, but then I saw her face and realized it wasn’t her. This must be Torrie Mayes, Arabella’s assistant.

  This woman’s chin was too pointed and, while her hair was cut in the same chin-length bob that Arabella favored, her hair was streaked with thick gold highlights and cut in a more severe style of a stacked bob. There was something else about her that was different. At least on screen, Arabella had an air of fragility, as if she were as delicate as a porcelain figurine. This woman had a sharpness, a hard aggressive edge that was evident from the way she lifted her chin and marched toward me. “You’re the assistant?”

  “Kate Sharp.” I extended my hand. “Location scout, temporarily on loan to help you out.”

  “Brill.” She bent her head over her bag and muttered, “Where did I—? Ah, here they are.” She took out a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and put it between her lips. I mentally cringed. Smoking had not been covered in the contract, but I was sure that Claire, not to mention the owner of Tate House, would have a fit if they knew one of the temporary residents was a smoker. I began mentally trying out different ways to tell Torrie that there was no smoking in the house.

  She spoke around the cigarette as she lit it. “As long as you’re Kate Sharp, that’s all Arabella cares about.” She took a long drag then blew out smoke. She closed h
er eyes for a second. “That’s better. Such a long drive.” She tilted the pack of cigarettes toward me. “You smoke?”

  I shook my head, and she quirked her lips to the side. “I shouldn’t either. My life would be so much easier if I didn’t. Arabella hates the smell of the smoke. She won’t let me smoke in the car, even with the window down, which is absurd because,” Torrie lowered her voice and leaned her sharp chin closer, “she used to be a pack-a-day girl. I know she wants a cigarette, but she’s too terrified of wrinkles to take it up again.” She took another drag. “Hibbert is here?”

  “Inside, putting away luggage.” I looked to the second SUV. Another man climbed down from the driver’s side, but I didn’t see anyone else.

  “Surely, this isn’t a second decoy?” I asked.

  “No.” Torrie waved her hand with the cigarette. “She’s on the phone. She’ll be along in a minute.”

  The man from the driver’s seat went to the back of the SUV and a few seconds later walked toward us, toting several more pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage. I did a double take. He looked exactly like Chester.

  He wore the same dark suit and white shirt with an open collar, but the resemblance didn’t stop there. His head was shaved, and his face was a carbon copy of Chester’s with the same dark eyes, dark brows, and trace of stubble. He even had the same crook in his nose. He nodded to me as he passed us. I turned and looked after him, then at Torrie. “That wasn’t Chester, was it? I thought he was inside.”

  “I have no idea.” She tapped her cigarette, and the ash from it fell onto a row of rocks that lined the drive.

  How can you not know your security people? That’s got to be one of the most basic things when it comes to security. My confusion must have shown on my face because Torrie said, “It might have been Chester, or it could have been his cousin…um, Sylvester, I think it is. I can’t tell them apart. Just call them Hibbert. They both answer to it.”

  I turned to look at the man who’d come out of the house to retrieve more of the luggage. He did look like the man I’d given the code word to. I wasn’t sure which man it was, but then he turned after picking up two suitcases, and I saw that he didn’t have a silver hoop in his ear…so he must be Chester’s cousin.

  Torrie cleared her throat. I switched my attention back to her. “Sorry. That must be very confusing. Does Chester always wear the hoop earring?”

  “No idea.” She looked at the bundle of keys and gate remotes that I held and raised her eyebrows, clearly moving on from the subject of the unusual security set up.

  “Right, okay. Here are the remotes for the gate and the keys to the front and back doors. The gate can be opened from inside the house as well. I’ll show you.”

  “No need. I have the instructions on that and the super hi-tech lighting and things. I got the email.”

  “Okay, good. Then I guess the only other thing you need to know about is the lighting in the back. It’s not on the same system as the house. You have to turn it on and off separately.”

  “How old-fashioned.”

  “I’ll show you. It’s just around this corner here.” I followed the same route that Chester had taken during his survey of the grounds, keeping to the narrow lane of lawn that ringed the house. Torrie followed me, and I was glad to get in front of the smoke filling the air around her. We turned the corner, and the grassy area widened, running from the curved turret of the house to the enclosing tree line. “Nice,” Torrie said as we passed the iron table where Claire and I had worked out the details of the house rental. I rounded the next corner of the house and stepped up onto the flagstone terrace. I’d gone a few steps when I realized Torrie wasn’t behind me. She’d halted at the edge of the terrace.

  “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t go out there. The paperwork didn’t say anything about a garden.”

  “That’s true,” I said, mentally reviewing the pages that had been sent back and forth. They had described the house, the woods, and the gate, but nothing about the garden. “Is something wrong?” Was the rental situation going to fall apart before the bags were even unpacked? There really wasn’t another option in the area for Arabella and her entourage. I’d done a little more checking after my initial meeting with Claire, in case Arabella didn’t like something about Tate House. This was the only viable location in the area.

  “It’s the pollen.” She gestured to the carpet of flowers tumbling down the hillside. “I’m highly allergic. It sends me into sneezing fits. And then there are the bees. Highly allergic there, too. I nearly died after a bee sting when I was a kid.” She patted her purse on her hip. “I keep an EpiPen with me all the time—just in case, you know.”

  She backed off the terrace and stepped onto the grass. “I know there’s been all that stuff in the news about the decline of honeybees in Britain, but they’re not gone. Especially in a place like this.”

  “I’m sorry about this. I had no idea. It wasn’t mentioned—”

  She waved her hand with the still-smoldering cigarette, sending a trail of smoke toward me. “Don’t look so worried. I’m just the help.” She sent me a brief, bitter smile. “My concerns don’t come into it. I’ll stay inside or,” she motioned with her shoulder back the way we’d come, “use that little lawn area that looks so fairy-tale-ish.” She looked toward the garden and the cascade of color. “Arabella will like it, though. She prefers to do her yoga outside, if she can. She’ll be down there, on one of those little stone landing things on the stairs, I bet.”

  “Oh, that will work out well,” I said, relieved.

  She grinned at me then, a genuine smile breaking across her face as she snuck a glance back over her shoulder. “And it means I won’t have to be part of the torture.”

  “What?”

  “Arabella’s workout. She calls it yoga, but it’s more like an hour-and-a-half drill for…I don’t know…the Special Forces, I guess. Her fitness coach was in the SAS. Her workout involves a lot more than stretching and inner peace. She likes to have a workout partner, and since her fitness coach couldn’t come with her, I thought I was in for it. But this,” she tilted her pointed chin at the garden steps, “may not be so bad after all.” She turned back toward the drive.

  “Oh, wait.” I halted. “Let me show you the switch for the garden lights. It’s over there by the door to the kitchen.” I crossed the terrace and flicked on a light switch located on the exterior wall of the house. Landscape lighting around the terrace glowed. “You probably can’t see it from where you are, but there are lights on each side of the steps all the way down and more landscape lighting in the garden.”

  “Right. Got it. I’ll let Hibbert know. Odd that the switch is out here. They made such a big deal about this being a smart house—everything automated and able to be controlled digitally. Arabella liked that.”

  The same thing had occurred to me, and I’d asked Claire about it. “The garden lighting and the pump for the pond are on a different circuit than the house. They run through the potting shed. See the roof of the little building about halfway down the hill?” A tall hedge enclosed the square stone building.

  “Ah—no, I’ll take your word for it.”

  It was obvious that she took the threat of a bee sting very seriously and wouldn’t venture more than a step or two into the area around the garden. I could see that there was no way I could convince her to cross the terrace and go in the house through either the door to the kitchen or one of the glass sliders in the dining room, so I turned off the outdoor lights and retraced my steps across the terrace.

  As we entered the shade of the trees on the way back to the drive, she stifled a sneeze. “See, there I go. Can’t do a thing about it except stay indoors. I have medicine for it but, honestly, it doesn’t do much good.”

  We reached the front of the house, and Torrie took another long drag on the now stubby cigarette. The back door of the SUV popped open, and Arabella emerged. At least, I assumed it was Arabella.<
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  A long gray raincoat was belted around the woman’s tiny waist and even with the layer of the coat, she looked as if a strong gust of wind would topple her willowy form. Under the slouchy brim of a woven summer hat, dark sunglasses covered half her face. The fringe of a pale pink scarf fluttered around her neck as she glided toward us. She wore black leggings that stopped at her calves and athletic shoes with bright pink accents.

  A charm bracelet jangled as she reached up to pull her sunglasses down an inch, revealing makeup-free and close-set brown eyes with stubby lashes. Dark half circles shadowed her eyes, standing out sharply against her porcelain skin. Her dark gaze focused on the cigarette, and her shapely eyebrows lowered into a frown. “No smoking in the house, Torrie. You know I can’t stand the smell.” Her tone was understated, but Torrie quickly stubbed out the cigarette. Arabella surveyed the front of Tate House then she wheeled around and looked at the woods.

  She gave a tiny nod. “This will do,” she said in the same restrained tone. She glanced pointedly at the stack of luggage that remained on the drive. “Get that inside. Have Hibbert bring the trunk in next. It goes in my room.”

  “Of course.” Torrie dropped the cigarette butt on the tarmac drive and hurried to meet one of the security guards who had just come out the front door. Arabella sent a vague smile in my direction, then drifted into the house.

  Chapter 4

  “BUT WHY INSIST I BE here, and then barely talk to me?” I tugged the hood of my windbreaker lower over my forehead. Drizzle had set in the day after Arabella arrived and had continued for two days, layering the countryside with a continuous fine spray of moisture. Fortunately, we were doing several interviews during the time and hadn’t had to do too much shifting of the schedule since we were indoors for most of the time already.