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

by Sara Rosett

  Since Arabella had requested me by name, Elise had insisted that I check in with Arabella in-person each day, which meant I’d spent the last two days shuttling between Tate House and Parkview Hall, where we were shooting the expert interviews. I’d dropped in at Tate House on my way home from the day’s filming. Torrie had reported everything was fine. Arabella was not in sight. Alex had called while I was there, so I’d stepped outside to take the call in the garden.

  “No idea,” Alex said.

  “Easy for you to say that in such a relaxed way. Arabella Emsley hasn’t put your schedule in disarray.” I stopped at the potting shed and looked in the window. Gardening tools and empty pots were strewn across a small wooden table almost completely obscuring it, and sagging bags of dirt and fertilizer were stacked haphazardly around the floor.

  “That’s true,” Alex conceded.

  I turned away from the shed and meandered down the grassy pathway of the yew walk that ran in a straight line. Cone-shaped shrubs that towered above my head bordered each side of the path. They were interspersed with banks of plants with silvery-green leaves that came up to hip level. “But if it had happened to you,” I said, “you’d probably like having your schedule shredded and turned into confetti.” Alex was much better at rolling with the punches than I was.

  “Comes from being a Foreign Service brat,” Alex said. “You learn not to get too settled with anything.” Alex’s father was still in the diplomatic service. Alex was American, but had grown up moving from one diplomatic post to another around the world. “Routine is so boring. Nothing wrong with shaking things up a bit,” he said. “But I do understand that it’s frustrating.”

  I glanced at the stone stairs that climbed to the terrace, but they remained deserted. I had the garden to myself and could speak without worrying someone would overhear my complaining. “It’s just so…inefficient, going back and forth between Parkview Hall and Tate House. Elise insisted I stay close and check in, but I don’t think Arabella wants me around. Torrie runs interference for her on everything. I haven’t even seen Arabella. Well, that’s not true,” I amended. “She’s been invisible every time I’ve stopped by Tate House, but I’ve seen her on the footpath behind the cottages walking down to the village a couple of times.”

  Each time, an umbrella shielded her face, but I recognized the gray raincoat. If that detail hadn’t been enough to know who she was, the real giveaway was her companion, a broad-shouldered man with a shaved head, a crooked nose, and a layer of stubble. “Slink and I met them last night on the path when we were leaving for our walk.”

  Slink was Alex’s greyhound, and I was taking care of her until Alex returned. Slink had been quivering with excitement to get out for what was really more of a run than a walk, and she’d shot out the back gate. I’d been focused on latching the gate and hadn’t realized Arabella and one of the Hibberts were on the path. At the sight of Slink, Arabella had hugged a large flat box to her chest and shied away, pressing herself up against the stacked stone wall.

  I’d said, “Don’t worry, she’s sweet.” I tugged the leash and Slink, who was only in the middle of the path, had pranced back to me, her long tail whipping back and forth.

  Arabella had half smiled. “I’m sure she is,” she said in her quiet tone, then tilted her head at her companion, indicating they should move on. I had hung back, deliberately setting a slow pace, watching as Arabella’s umbrella bobbed down the path away from us. Once in the village, she had turned and headed for the red postbox while Slink and I continued to the river and the wide-open stretch of meadow beyond it where Slink could run at top speed.

  I ambled by the garden’s pond with the lily pads and said to Alex, “Arabella reminds me of my fifth grade English teacher, Mrs. Walthrop, who never raised her voice. She controlled the class with a look or the lift of an eyebrow. It’s really quite amazing, now that I think about it. She had an air of authority. She knew we’d do what she said. She never doubted it…and we did. Arabella has that same aura of command.”

  “Money and fame do that for you,” Alex said.

  “I suppose so. I had lunch at the pub, and Louise said Arabella’s been in town a couple of times every day. She causes a stir each time. She always has one of the Hibberts with her, and he scowls at anyone who gets close. But there’s something about Arabella, too, a detachment or reserve that keeps people from approaching her. Louise says no one has been brave enough to ask for an autograph or to even attempt a selfie with her.” I paused to admire some yellow flowers that I thought I remembered Louise calling cowslips. “Arabella seems perfectly set up here with Torrie and the security guys. She never wants to speak to me when I come by. Why does she want me checking in on them?”

  “Who knows why the talent makes the requests that they do? Don’t try to figure it out—you’ll only drive yourself crazy. That movie I worked on last summer, one of the stars had to have fresh flowers in her trailer that matched whatever costume she was in that day. Another guy insisted that no one was allowed to speak directly to him on-set except the director—said it broke his concentration.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” I watched several beads of water gather on a leaf until their weight bent the leaf, and the water drained away. I should be like the leaf and let the stress roll off me. I rotated my shoulders in an effort to relax. “Everything is getting done. Although, I’m relying on Freya more than I usually do. I shouldn’t complain. How’s it going where you are?”

  “Weather,” he said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “We’re waiting for the rain to stop. You’re at the edge of the storm. We’re getting the full brunt of it. We’ve done everything inside we can. It’s supposed to clear tomorrow, so maybe we can finish up here the next day.”

  “That would be great. You could be back by the weekend.”

  After a tiny pause, he said, “I have an appointment Saturday.”

  “Are you stopping off in London?”

  “No. I’m not sure how long it will take.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t fill the silence with details, only said, “I’ll let you know when I’m on my way back.”

  His voice said the subject was closed, and I felt as if a cold finger had touched my spine. It wasn’t like Alex to keep things back. He was one of the most open people I knew…except lately he’d been a little secretive. Especially when it came to his laptop. Anytime I came near him while he was working on it, he’d minimize the window he was working in or shut the laptop altogether. I hadn’t thought much of it at first, but it had been going on for several weeks, and it was at the point where even I—someone who liked to avoid confrontation—was beginning to think I should mention it.

  “Okay,” I said, but things didn’t feel okay. How can one short sentence throw off everything? I’d looped back to the yew walk and frowned at the symmetry of the plantings, wishing I could line up everything so neatly in my life.

  “So, any sightings of the bodyguards today?” Alex asked in his normal tones as if he hadn’t just strong-armed me off the topic of when he’d return.

  I wasn’t good at relationship stuff—I shied away from discussing “us.” I knew I overanalyzed things, so I’d tried not to do that with our relationship. Every time Alex brought it up, I put him off. It would seem hypocritical to insist he share with me, when I’d refused to do that in the past. I tried to backtrack to our previous conversation and ignore the flutter of uneasiness I felt. “No, not a peep from them. I suppose they’re still here—”

  One of the yews in the line shivered, raining water onto the grass.

  “Sorry, you broke up,” Alex said. “What did you say?”

  “It’s not the connection. I stopped talking.” I watched as the yew trembled again, releasing another shower of droplets, smaller this time. Unlike the first time I saw the garden, when the wind was strong, today was completely still. I took a few slow steps forward.

  “Why are you whispering?” Alex asked, his voice matching my
quiet tone.

  “I’m in the garden. I thought I was alone, but now I think there’s someone else here.”

  “Why shouldn’t there be someone else there?” he asked, his voice returning to its normal level. “Is it closed or off-limits or something?”

  “No, but it’s dreary and not a day for strolling in the gardens.”

  “But you’re strolling in a garden on a soggy day. It’s not unheard of in England.”

  “I know, but I could see the whole garden from the terrace when I came down. No one else was down here then. Where did they come from? I’ve been within sight of the stairs the whole time.” It was too damp to wander off the main paths. “If someone else came down from the house I would have seen them.” While I spoke, I’d stood still and kept my gaze on the yew, but it didn’t move again. “Must have been an animal or…something.”

  I turned to head back to the stone stairs, but a blur of motion caught my eye. A figure appeared from behind the yew then ducked out of sight. The silver-green leaves rustled and shook, and water drops sprayed.

  The person—a man, I thought—with dark hair hunched down behind the garden plants and stayed out of sight as he moved away from me. I headed for the stairs, but before I’d gone even two steps, the figure reached the point where the landscape of the garden gave way to the edging of beech trees. He disappeared into the deep shadows under the trees. Faintly, I heard the sound of someone squelching through the fallen leaves, then the garden was quiet again, except for the plink of water dripping off leaves.

  A thin voice called my name, and I put the phone back to my ear. “Kate? Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. There was someone in the garden with me. He—or it could have been a she, I guess—ran when they realized I’d noticed them.” I went back to the yew walk.

  “Ran away?”

  “Yes, all bent over so that I couldn’t see them.” A few low branches on the beech trees swayed where the figure had pushed through. It was easy to follow the path the person had taken, a trail of flattened silvery-green leaves and broken stems ran in a straight line from the yew to the garden’s edge.

  “Could it have been someone from the house?” Alex asked. “Maybe one of the security guards sneaking out for a smoke?”

  I’d told Alex about the no-smoking-in-the-house rule that Arabella had implemented. I looked back at the yew, trying to remember. “No, it couldn’t have been one of them. There was a second before he ducked behind the plants, and this guy had longish dark hair. Well, I suppose it could have been a woman with dark hair cut in a bob…” I trailed off. It couldn’t have been Torrie. She had dark hair, but she had an abundance of gold highlights. I was sure the person who had been in the garden didn’t have highlights.

  “Could it have been Arabella?” Alex asked. “She’s got short dark hair in one of those cuts—what did you call it?”

  “A bob. No, it couldn’t have been her. She has light brown hair, not dark brown. Actually,” I said more slowly, “I suppose it could have been her. The only time I’ve seen her, she was wearing a big hat, and I couldn’t see her hair. I haven’t spoken to her or seen her up close since they arrived, except on the path that time. Her umbrella was one of those with the steep curved sides, and she held it down almost covering her face. I couldn’t see her hair then. In the photo I’d seen on the tabloid front page she’d had brown hair, but it could be any shade.” Different roles required different looks so her hair could be a different shade, depending on what role she’d just finished, or she could have changed her hair color herself. “But why would she run away from me?”

  “You said Torrie told you that Arabella gave up smoking. Maybe Arabella wanted a cigarette, but didn’t want anyone to know. Maybe she was embarrassed to be caught smoking.”

  I sniffed. “I don’t smell any smoke.” But a fruity smell that I couldn’t place immediately lingered in the air. The wet turf around the yew was flattened on the side of the shrub that had been opposite of me. “No cigarette butts anywhere.” My gaze ran up the shrub from the wide base to the narrow top. It was certainly big enough for someone to hide behind. The top of it reached several inches above my head. I noticed something white below the prickly branches and picked it up.

  I smoothed the tiny rectangle of paper, a balled up gum wrapper. I wasn’t familiar with the brand name, which was printed diagonally across one side. I sniffed the inside of the wrapper. Banana.

  “Did you know there is a gum that’s banana flavored?” I asked.

  “Now that’s random.”

  “I found a bit of paper—a gum wrapper—under the tree. Banana flavored.”

  “Do you think the person dropped it, or maybe it fell out of their pocket?”

  “Could be, or it could have been here for days…but it’s not wet.” I scanned the rest of the yew and the ground. “Oh, wait. There’s a footprint.” A clear indentation of a shoe print showed in the flowerbed beside the yew. I poised my foot over the muddy imprint, but didn’t touch the ground. “Nope, I bet it was a man. The footprint is quite a bit larger than mine. Some sort of work shoe, I think from the treads. I should go and let one of the Hibbert cousins know someone got inside the gate.” I blew out a sigh. “Arabella and company won’t be happy with this.”

  Chapter 5

  I FOUND TORRIE IN THE kitchen, making tea. One of the Hibberts sat at the long table. I guessed it was Sylvester because he wasn’t wearing a silver hoop in his earlobe. He nodded to me and went back to his game of what I thought looked like Solitaire, but what I’d learned the Brits called Patience. I pushed back the hood of my raincoat, staying on the mat so I didn’t drip water. “There was someone in the garden when I was down there. A man, I think.”

  Torrie and Sylvester exchanged a look. I’d thought I’d have to convince them, but there was no question they both believed me. Some unspoken communication flickered between them. Torrie’s gaze darted to the row of windows overlooking the terrace. She put down a package of tea bags. “I’ll tell Arabella.” She darted out of the kitchen.

  “Are you sure it was a man?” Sylvester—or maybe Chester—put down the stack of playing cards.

  “Pretty sure. He left a footprint in the mud in the yew walk. I think it’s too big to be a woman’s footprint. As soon as he realized I was there, he took off. He ran through the garden and disappeared into the woods.” I didn’t say anything about the gum wrapper that was now tucked away in my pocket. It could have been there a long time. Maybe the branches sheltered it from the drizzle, and that’s why it was dry.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll check.” He didn’t bother to get a jacket, just went directly outside.

  I scraped my feet on the mat and shook out my jacket then stepped into the kitchen, my gaze running over the card game as I waited for Torrie to come back. He was near the end of the game. Long rows of cards trailed across the table with a few of them bumping up against a stack of mail.

  “…it could have been Violet,” Torrie was saying as she and Arabella came down the hall into the kitchen. “She came by earlier today.”

  Arabella’s stride checked in the doorway. “Violet? Here?” She sighed. “I suppose she’s still going on about her ridiculous little school?”

  “I don’t know,” Torrie said. “Probably. She didn’t say why she’d come. I talked to her through the intercom. She said she was in the area and wanted to see you.”

  “And what did you tell her?”

  Torrie said, “That it wasn’t a good time—like I always do.”

  “Good. Although, I’m sure she’ll be back later. Don’t let her in. I suppose I’ll have to speak to her. I’ll call her later,” Arabella said in a vague tone of voice, then she spotted me. “Kate, darling, was it terrible?” Her hair was wrapped up in a towel, and she wore a long green silk kimono that fluttered around her ankles as she crossed the kitchen, giving the impression she was floating. She gripped my hand, and her charm bracelet jangled with the movement. “He didn’t hur
t you, did he?”

  Surprised by her physical presence, and the intensity of her dark gaze as she studied every inch of my face, I leaned back. “No, I’m fine. He ran away.”

  “There,” Torrie said with satisfaction. “You see, it couldn’t have been Stevie. He’d never run away.”

  A frown creased the skin between Arabella’s perfectly shaped brows. “No, you’re right. He wouldn’t do that. But I don’t think—Violet wouldn’t…no, she’s never been brave enough to even try to get inside grounds that are gated and walled.”

  Stevie Lund’s photo had also been on the cover of the tabloid when they ran the story about Arabella and Stevie’s break-up. The inset photo of him had been much smaller, but I did remember he had dark hair and a prominent brow over small, close-set eyes. Had it been Stevie in the garden? I hadn’t seen enough of the man to say, so I didn’t mention it. Instead, I asked, “Who’s Violet?”

  Arabella’s expressive eyes went to the ceiling as her shoulders dropped. “My sister. So trying. Always sniveling and going on and on about her painting.” She still gripped my hands and pulled them out a few inches to look me over, head to toe. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “Good.” She squeezed my hands then dropped them.

  “One of the Hibberts is out there now,” Torrie said.

  Arabella folded herself into a seat at the table, casually sweeping the rows of cards out of her way. “Where is that tea? I’m parched.”

  Arabella missed the flat line that Torrie’s lips compressed into as she picked up the kettle. The other security guy came into the room, shrugging into a jacket. He turned his head as he pulled his collar free, and I saw he had on a silver earring so it must be Chester. Arabella stared at him. “Where are you going?”

  “To help—”

  “No. You stay here, in the house.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Arabella said, “You go back to watching the gate on the monitor. Let me know if anyone approaches.” She sent Torrie a look. “Anyone.”