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

by Sara Rosett

  Elise—outfitted head-to-toe in black as always—swept across the lawn, and descended on us like a crow attacking a scrap of food. “Well?” she asked, eyebrows raised. I shook my head. “Arabella can’t have disappeared,” Elise said, exasperated. “We still have the scene by the house to do.”

  Paul trotted up, his pencil falling from his ear. He caught it in midair and said in a low voice to Elise, “Ren says if we don’t find her soon, we need to call the police.”

  “Nonsense,” Elise said quickly, and I knew she was thinking that calling the police would effectively shut us down for the day, which would affect the budget and the schedule. “She’s probably wandered off on her own. The grounds are massive. We shouldn’t do anything until we’ve looked everywhere.”

  Elise waved Paul in the direction of the long tree-lined drive. “Check to make sure she’s not at the end of the drive. I don’t know why she would go there, but check anyway.”

  I asked, “Did anyone look in the greenhouses?”

  No one replied. “I’ll do that,” I said, remembering Torrie’s aversion to being around any type of flowering plant. She had stayed clear of the gardens this morning, and I doubted that even searching for her missing employer would induce her to enter the gardens. Torrie said she’d check the parking area and trailers again.

  I crossed the lawn, rounded the manor house, then hurried down the flight of steps to the garden, pausing to run my gaze over the immediate area. But the only people I saw were in modern clothes, not Regency gowns. I reached the first greenhouse and entered the steamy atmosphere, which was heady with the scent of damp earth and flowers. It appeared empty, but I walked the length of it then left through the door at the opposite end. Several narrow greenhouses were situated end-to-end, and I walked through the chain of glass enclosures, passing fruit trees and flowering shrubs.

  They were built on a steady rise of land. Between each greenhouse I trotted up a set of steps. When I reached the last one, the view out the steamy windows overlooked the formal gardens and the rolling countryside. You could even see the sparkling gray ribbon of the river that bounded one side of Parkview. I didn’t pause to take in the scene, but hurried through the last greenhouse because I’d caught a glimpse of a figure in white outside the building. Ducking under tropical plants with mammoth drooping leaves, I pushed through the door at the far end and stepped into the cooler air outside. Arabella stood in the shade of a magnificent old oak, her parasol propped against the trunk, and her gloves and reticule tossed on the grass.

  She faced away from me toward the view, but she heard my approach and turned.

  “Everyone is looking for you,” I said.

  “Are they?” She sounded completely unconcerned as she lifted what was left of a cigarette to her lips, drew in a breath, then blew out smoke with a sigh of satisfaction.

  If Melissa were here, I knew she’d have heart palpitations at the sight of the cigarette. Many of the costumes were borrowed from Parkview Hall and were actually from the Regency era. At least Arabella had removed the long white gloves that were part of the ensemble.

  “They can’t start without me, can they?” She studied the end of the cigarette. “My guilty secret. I’ve been so good for so long, but sometimes I simply must have one.”

  I unclipped the walkie-talkie. “I’ll let them know we’re on our way back.”

  “Yes, do that. Is Torrie having one of her panic attacks?” Her tone was disinterested as she looked back to the grounds.

  “She was worried about you. We all were.”

  “Hmm. She should be—worried, that is.” Arabella dropped the cigarette and ground it into the turf with the toe of her satin slipper. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  Chapter 8

  HAD I HEARD HER RIGHT? “Did you say someone is trying to kill you?” I let go of the TALK button on the walkie-talkie.

  “Yes.” She nodded. “I got another threat this morning. Nasty thing.” She closed her eyes briefly, and her affected manner dropped away. “I destroyed it, of course, but I’m sure Torrie has the others. She’s like that—she would keep them.”

  “The others?”

  “Yes, they’ve been arriving quite regularly, words clipped from magazines—rather juvenile, you know—like some child’s art project, telling me my days are numbered—that sort of thing.”

  I blinked then spoke into the walkie-talkie. I let Paul know I’d found Arabella and that we’d be back shortly, then focused on Arabella. “You let the police know about the threats, right?” I asked while my mind raced. Death threats were definitely something that should have been mentioned to us.

  “No. I know it’s Stevie. And the police can’t touch him. Stevie always makes certain of that, after what happened to his uncle. Who else could it be?”

  “Perhaps this guy.” I took out my phone and pulled up the photo I’d taken earlier of the dark-haired man as Trent was escorting him away. “He tried to get through security today. He has a nasally voice and lied about living in the village.” I wouldn’t have pegged him as a serious threat. “He seemed more of a self-absorbed guy out to get what he could for himself, but…”

  She looked at me sharply, her face worried as she yanked the phone out of my hand then her expression cleared as she laughed. “Gil? He’s not a threat. He’s a gnat. Pesky and irritating, but not threatening.”

  “He did say his name was Gil. Who is he?”

  She shoved the phone back at me then bent to pick up her gloves, parasol, and reticule. “Gil Brayden, a low-rung paparazzi. He’s decided I’m his ticket to the big time. He’s followed me everywhere lately.”

  The drawstring mouth of the reticule gapped open as she picked it up, and a cloth pouch spilled halfway out. She shoved it back inside as I said, “That doesn’t mean he’s not the one sending you the notes. It could be him. How are you getting the notes?”

  “The first were through the post, but I threw those away. Lately, Stevie has gotten more inventive. This morning it was in the card that came with a flower delivery. They were orchids,” she said as if I couldn’t argue with that statement.

  “I’m sorry I don’t see what that has to do—”

  “Stevie always sent me orchids,” she said impatiently. “It was our thing.”

  “Hmm.” That didn’t seem conclusive to me, but I only asked, “How else have the notes been delivered?”

  She swished the furled parasol idly through the air, but her eyes sparkled. “He’s been quite creative, I’ll give him that. If he wasn’t talking about my death, it would be almost…entertaining.”

  She was enjoying the whole situation, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she was exaggerating things. It wouldn’t be the first time a celebrity had a skewed picture of reality.

  “Let’s see,” she said, her gaze roving up the tree branches. “One showed up in my menu at dinner about a week ago, another was left under the wiper on my car, and—oh, yes—one came with a Chinese food delivery.”

  “Have you received any at Tate House?”

  “No. I thought maybe it was over—that he’d lost interest—but I should have known better. He’s not one to give up.”

  “Give up on what?”

  “Getting me out of the way, of course. It’s the flat in London. He loves it. It was…” She shrugged. “…I don’t know—a symbol, I suppose, that he’d arrived. And I’m going to take it away from him.” Her mouth curved up into the first true smile I’d seen on her face. She tilted her head to the side as she studied me. “I can see you’re not convinced. Stevie is quite ruthless and rather simple, poor thing. He sees what I’ll do to him, and he’s trying to get me out of the way.”

  “But surely if he were going to…attempt to harm you, he wouldn’t announce it. If something happened to you, he would be the first suspect.”

  “Yes, but as I said, he wouldn’t do it himself.” Her tone was patronizing as if she were explaining something to a child. “He’ll assign it to someone, someone who doesn
’t connect to him. But I don’t have to worry about it. That’s why I have the Hibberts with me. And I’m leaving on a long holiday far away from England as soon as we’re done here. In a few days, Stevie will have absolutely no idea where I am.”

  She pulled on her gloves. “You still don’t believe me, do you? Ask Torrie. It’s not all in my head, I assure you.” She smoothed the fabric up to her elbows. “Now, let’s get back so we can shoot this last scene, and I can get out of this horrible corset. I swear, I’m never doing anything remotely historical ever again. The clothes are murder.”

  She walked by me, swinging the parasol. I picked up the cigarette butt from between the tree roots and followed her.

  The crew breathed a collective sigh of relief when Arabella appeared, except for Elise. She looked thunderous. Arabella didn’t seem to notice as she drifted down the gravel path to Ren. She put a hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize about the time or that I’d wandered so far away. It’s so gorgeous here…”

  Ren smiled politely and went on to discuss what we were filming next, but there was a frosty politeness in his manner that was unusual. I glanced around and saw Torrie. I motioned for her to join me a little away from everyone.

  “Arabella told me about the threats.” I kept my voice low.

  Her eyes widened then a blush flooded her cheeks. “Of course she did. Couldn’t keep it to herself, could she? It was too good. Too juicy. I suppose there was one minute when she wasn’t the center of attention.”

  “Do you have the threatening notes?” I asked, trying to stay focused. “She said you would have kept them.”

  “Yes,” she said, sulkily. “I have them back at Tate House.”

  “We have to call the police. The production needed to know as well. We should have been informed of the issue before you arrived.”

  Torrie’s shoulder twitched. “You know as well as I do that something like that is almost impossible to keep under wraps once you start telling people.”

  I let that argument slide. We were past that now. “We need to reassess everything, especially security. I’ll contact the local constable. I’m sure he’ll pass it along to the appropriate person to investigate it. They will want to see the notes.” I’d become acquainted with Constable Albertson over the last year. This wasn’t the first time we’d had trouble associated with filming, but hopefully this wouldn’t be as serious as the incidents in the past.

  Torrie’s gaze connected with someone behind me. I turned and saw it was one of the Hibberts, dressed in khaki pants and a knit shirt today, striding across the lawn. His path took him in a wide circumference of the house. I narrowed my eyes and didn’t see the silver hoop earring, so I assumed it was Sylvester. To head off any trouble, I said, “You let Sylvester know we located Ms. Emsley, right?” I looked back at Torrie and saw she was giving him a slight nod with her pointed chin. He gave me a hard stare, but didn’t break his stride as he continued on his circular track around the house.

  She focused back on me. “What?”

  “He knows that Arabella has been found?” I repeated. With the mass of the crew, the shrubs, and the side of the house blocking the scene, Arabella was barely visible.

  “Oh, that. Yes. I sent him a text.”

  I watched his barrel-chested figure until a raised bed of lupines in the garden blocked him from view. Torrie must have noticed my interest and said, “I told him to do a sweep of the entire area. Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s a good idea. We did have someone try to get on the set earlier today.” I brought up the picture of Gil Brayden on my phone and handed it to her. “Ms. Emsley recognized him. Said he was paparazzi.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “He’s nothing but trouble.”

  “Arabella wasn’t too concerned about him. She seemed to see him as a nuisance more than anything else.”

  She shoved my phone back. “Arabella is not as smart as she thinks she is. She should be concerned.” From her clipped words and the set line of her mouth, I realized Torrie was angry.

  There it was again, an undercurrent of emotion that I couldn’t sort out. I sighed internally, thinking that Elise might be right. Working with “stars” was more trouble than it was worth.

  Torrie’s angry gaze focused on the huddle of people moving along the side of the house. As the call went out for silence, I wondered why Torrie would be upset with Arabella. Surely unwanted photographers were a run-of-the-mill occurrence that they had to handle frequently. Arabella had certainly taken that attitude yesterday, indicating that strangers appearing in the garden were no big deal.

  I whispered to Torrie that I would be in touch with her at the end of the day. I left her with arms crossed, scowling at the façade of Parkview.

  I tiptoed to the grass and carefully moved away so that I could make my phone call to Constable Albertson a safe distance away. He wasn’t in, so I left a message then quietly returned to the area near the gravel walk, but remained on the outskirts of the crew.

  Arabella, her parasol open, walked toward the camera, which was being rolled backward. A bird swooped from the line of shrubbery into the shot and Arabella flinched. Ren called, “Cut,” and Arabella turned and walked back to her mark, her stride quite a bit less graceful and ambling than a moment ago. Everyone repositioned then Arabella strolled forward again when Ren called for action. Almost immediately, Ren’s voice rang out, halting Arabella. “The parasol, it’s too low. We can’t see your face.”

  Arabella stepped back to her mark and shifted the parasol. It was amazing how difficult and time-consuming even a simple shot could be. I scanned the crew as everyone inched forward again synched with Arabella as if she was a cog that set a huge machine in motion. Arabella was about halfway along the side of the house, when a dark shape plummeted from the roof.

  It happened so quickly that the thing had already hit the ground a yard or so behind Arabella and shattered into pieces before anyone reacted. A ripple of astonishment went through the crew, and I started forward, my heart accelerating.

  What had fallen? I scanned the roofline as I ran. Everything looked exactly as it had earlier. All the stone decorations were in place, but when I pushed my way into the group that had closed around Arabella, I saw bits and pieces of stone scattered across the gravel. I recognized the graceful curves carved into the stone. The impact had broken it into several pieces, but I could tell it was a roof finial.

  Through the babble of talk around us, Arabella, her hand pressed to her heart, stared at the bits of shattered stone. She looked at me, and her face transitioned as she raised an eyebrow. She was an actress and could convey so much with a look. It was as if she’d spoken aloud saying, “See, I told you someone wants to kill me.”

  Chapter 9

  “HOW COULD A PIECE OF stone fall off Parkview?” Alex asked.

  I switched the phone to my other ear and wished he were here with me, instead of miles away. “I’m not explaining this very well. It was a finial—one of the stone decorations from the roofline. You know, the smaller ones, not the big urns—and I don’t think it fell. Nothing is missing from the stone decorations directly above the gravel walk. They’re evenly spaced so it’s easy to see that they’re all there.”

  I slowed as I reached the stone bridge that arched over the river. It had been a chaotic scene on the gravel walk, and now that I was on my way home, I wanted a little time in the quiet of the countryside.

  “Then where did the finial come from?” Alex asked, still sounding as bewildered as I felt.

  I blew out a sigh. “The official line is that it must have been a piece that was removed from the other section of the roof that’s under renovation. The theory is that it was somehow overlooked, left in a precarious position, and finally just happened to slip off and fall today, almost hitting Arabella.”

  After a few seconds of silence, Alex said, “That sounds doubtful.”

  “I agree.” I let my tote bag, heavy with my camera, slide
off my shoulder. I set it on the ground, then I leaned on the bridge’s parapet and watched the water sweep by below me. After all the rain, the current was fast and water was high on the banks, drenching the long grass and stones that edged the river. Farther out from the bridge, the water smoothed out and reflected the overhanging branches.

  Parkview Hall was a short walk away from my cottage, and on days like today when the weather was nice, I walked to work instead of driving. The wind had picked up in the afternoon, and I thought it probably wouldn’t be so nice tomorrow. “I don’t think that anyone else really believes it either. And the media are happy to play up the drama of it. A photo of Arabella leaving Parkview is already online at all the celebrity sites with the news that she had a near miss. Freya showed it to me.”

  I transferred my gaze to the water directly below the bridge. A murky reflection of my face framed with dark hair dangling on either side of it undulated in the current. “Some of the crew swear that they saw movement on the roof right after the finial hit the ground.”

  “But that would mean it would have to be someone from Parkview. You’d have to be familiar with the layout of the house and know how to get through the attic to the roof. I mean, I assume, access to the roof is through the attic?”

  “I have no idea how someone would get up there. I don’t think even the tour guides know details like that.”

  “And why would someone do that?” Alex asked. “Does someone have a grudge against the documentary?”

  “No, I don’t think so. For one thing, it’s a little late for that, isn’t it? We’ve filmed there before without problems, and we’re almost done now. No, I don’t think it was anyone from Parkview.”