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

by Sara Rosett

  “But how would someone get up there? They couldn’t just drag a ladder into place.”

  “No, but there is scaffolding.” The bridge was constructed of the same buttery golden stone as Parkview and was hot under my arms so I shifted position, leaning back a bit.

  “Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the renovation,” Alex said. “How far up does the scaffolding go?”

  “All the way to the roof. And the stone roof decorations are sitting in rows in the same area on the ground, waiting to be cleaned. The area is cordoned off, but it wouldn’t be hard for someone to get inside, pick up a finial, and climb the scaffolding. Once they were behind the drape that covers the scaffolding, no one would know they were there. The finial shattered when it hit the ground, but I saw the pieces. It was covered with a dark layer of grime.”

  “How big are the finials?”

  “Much bigger than I thought. About two feet tall. They look enormous when they’re lined up on the ground, like one of those oversized outdoor chess games. Of course, the urns are twice as big and must be massively heavy. There’s no way one person could haul an urn from the ground to the roof without a crane or pulley. But I think the finial wouldn’t be impossible to move. Slightly awkward, but doable, especially for someone strong.”

  “I don’t like that I’m stuck here when something like that is going on.” A gusty sigh came over the line. “I can’t get away. We still have at least one more day here.”

  “I’m fine. I wasn’t anywhere near it,” I said, wanting to acknowledge the uneasiness I heard in his voice, but as always, my mind was a total blank. “Um, thanks for—ah—being concerned.” Lame. Why was I so bad at this relationship thing? Why did I sound so stilted? Alex seemed to be able to put exactly what he felt into words. Why couldn’t I do that?

  “Of course I’m concerned. I know how curious you are about, well, everything. And it sounds like you’re already in the middle of this mess with Arabella. The whole situation worries me. Do you think it has anything to do with that paparazzi guy? Could he have set it up to get photos and a dramatic story?”

  I’d already told Alex about the confrontation with Gil Brayden. I pushed away from the bridge’s parapet, picked up my tote bag, and ambled along the shadowed footpath that ran back to the village. “I don’t think so. For one thing, I didn’t see anyone taking pictures. I suppose he could have slipped onto the grounds and been hiding behind some of the shrubbery, but he’d need an accomplice, someone to drop the finial. I got the feeling that he wasn’t a team player.”

  “More of a one-man-show type?”

  “Yes, with the man he was most concerned about being himself.”

  “And if Arabella had been hurt, he wouldn’t have a chance to get additional photos, not if she was in the hospital.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “So that leaves Arabella’s ex. She has been getting threats that she’s sure are from him.” I recounted what Arabella had said about the notes. The path wound through a thicket then ran along an open stretch, giving a view of the treed hill ahead where the gables of Tate House were visible. I couldn’t see my cottage because it was on the other side of the hill. “Constable Albertson has the notes now.”

  I crossed the meadow then lengthened my stride as the path climbed up the rise of the hill. “He sent someone with Torrie to get them from Tate House while he interviewed everyone at Parkview. He told me a detective inspector would be in touch.”

  “With something like this—a case that involves a celebrity—it’s not surprising it’s been passed up the chain.”

  The path flattened again. On my left was the dry-stone wall that enclosed Tate House while on my right dense woods ran right up to the path. I paused to catch my breath. “Yes, I suppose it had to be, no matter how…odd…the situation is.”

  “What do you mean?” Alex asked.

  “Well, it’s such a strange way to hurt someone. Kind of showy, but not what I’d call highly effective. The finial didn’t actually hit that close to her. It was several feet behind her. Arabella hinted that Stevie Lund would—okay, I feel weird just saying this aloud—but I’m pretty sure that she was trying to tell me that he’d hire a hit man to hurt her. But I don’t think many hit men use rocks dropped from a height, you know?”

  “It certainly wouldn’t have the same advantage as a gun or something like that,” Alex said, and I could hear the grin in his voice, then he turned serious. “So what are you saying? You think the whole thing was a stunt?”

  “I don’t know.” I walked slowly, my pace matching my words. “Arabella is afraid. Yesterday, she was scared when she first found out about the man in the garden. And she does have two security people working for her—”

  I moved the phone away from my ear and listened. Yes, I’d definitely heard someone shouting, and it was coming from Tate House.

  Chapter 10

  I PUT MY PHONE IN my pocket as I backtracked along the path. I’d told Alex I would call him back after I checked in at Tate House. Wrangling Arabella and her entourage still fell to me, and I knew Elise would hold me personally responsible if something went wrong. I had to at least check that everything was okay.

  Ren had dismissed most of the crew and cast once the police had said we could leave. I knew Arabella and Torrie had to stay longer, but Constable Albertson talked to them relatively early, and I’d seen them leave Parkview before I did. Even though we’d stopped filming for the day, I still had my normal end of day wrap-up to see to, and I was one of the last of the crew to leave Parkview.

  As I got closer to Tate House’s drive, I could hear a few words and raised my eyebrows at the vicious tone. The voice was too deep to be a woman. Had Gil returned? If he was making all that noise, he was persistent. But I didn’t think he’d get inside the gate using that kind of language. The drive to Tate House curved sharply into the trees at a steep incline. I took a few steps up the drive. A yellow Ferrari with one door hanging open sat in front of the closed wrought iron gate.

  It wasn’t Gil. A man paced back and forth in front of the gate like a restless animal at a zoo, his suit jacket flapping with his jerky movements. He kicked the bars a few times, the metallic clang filling the air as the gates gave an inch then resettled into position. He stalked back to the intercom box. He leaned close to it, giving me a profile view of his bulging brow. I realized he was Stevie Lund as he said, “I know you’re in there Arabella. Do you hear me? I found you.” His voice, which had been rough and loud, went soft. “And I want what’s mine.” The quieter more controlled tone made the words more frightening than if he’d shouted them.

  I swallowed and backed away a few steps, using the dry-stone wall to shield me. This situation was not something that I could handle. I inched forward enough that I could see the gate again. Lund looked at the gate, hands on hips. Then, in a burst of speed, he moved quickly. Striding around the open car door, he leaned in, shut off the engine, and slammed the door.

  He took a few steps back and ran toward the gate. He leapt about halfway up the stone pillar that served as the gatepost. Using the grooves in the mortar between the stones, he climbed to the top, grabbed the stone orb that crowned the post, and levered himself over, landing lightly on his feet on the other side of the gate.

  So much for the security of the wall and gate. The man pulled his cuffs straight, ran his hands down the lapels of his jacket, then strode up the drive as if he owned the place. As his figure disappeared into the trees, I took out my phone and dialed Torrie’s number. Wasn’t one of the Hibbert cousins watching the security monitors? But I didn’t hear a shout or the thud of feet coming from the house, only the rustle of leaves and some birdsong.

  I listened to the line ring several times then hung up and scrolled to Arabella’s number. I’d never called her directly, but I’d entered her number in my phone when Elise insisted I take on the role of liaison between her and the production.

  I kept an eye on the gate in case Stevie Lund returned while I listened for Arabel
la to answer. When the call switched to voicemail, I hung up. Briefly, I considered calling the police, but decided to continue through my contact list. Even in a small village like Nether Woodsmoor, it would take a while to explain what had happened and send someone here. I called Sylvester’s number first since he had been the one with Arabella today at Parkview. He answered before the first ring ended. “Yeah?”

  “Sylvester, this is Kate Sharp. Are you at Tate House?”

  “No. Upper Benning.”

  “Is Torrie at the house?” I asked.

  “No, she’s with me.”

  “Where is Arabella? Is she with you, too?”

  “She’s back at the house with Chester.”

  “Okay. Stevie Lund just climbed the gatepost and got into the grounds—” The drone of the dial tone cut into my sentence. I pulled the phone away from my ear and looked at the screen. “He hung up on me,” I muttered as I found Chester’s number and called him.

  He answered immediately. Before I could say more than my name, he interrupted. “I’m on it.”

  A dial tone buzzed in my ear. “Well, you’re welcome.” I ended the call then stood there a moment, my thumb hovering over the numbers. Should I go ahead and call the police or wait? Arabella had not been happy that she’d had to speak to Constable Albertson today. She’d been even more upset when Torrie told her the police wanted the threatening notes.

  Leaves rustled and branches snapped behind me. I spun around, but the path was empty in both directions as far as I could see. Then several dull thuds sounded. The noise had come from the direction of the village. The curve of the path meant that I couldn’t see more than a few yards. I wondered if Stevie Lund had decided to leave Tate House a different way than the gate.

  I stepped away from the stone wall, crossed the path, and merged into the trees on the other side. I waited, tense and ready to step deeper into the woods, but the only thing that moved were the treetops as they swayed in the wind, which had picked up as the day went on.

  I waited a minute or two more, then left the trees and walked along the path in the direction that the sound had come from. As I moved around the curve, a pile of tumbled stone came into view. The dry-stone walls of Derbyshire were made without mortar. The flat stones were stacked horizontally one on top of another, except for the top row where the flat stones were positioned vertically like a row of books standing on a shelf. A gap on the top row of the stone wall looked like a missing tooth.

  The stone walls of the countryside were ancient and crumbling in some places, but this wall was normally in good shape. A group of volunteers had even repaired some breaks in it not long ago. The thuds I heard must have been the stones as they landed on the path. I glanced up and down the section of the path that was in my view, but I only saw a few cyclists in the distance.

  I turned and headed back to the gate to tell Chester that Stevie Lund had gotten away over a different section of the wall. The sound of pounding feet filled the air as I reached the drive. A clang of metal, the same sound that I’d heard when Stevie hit the gates in frustration, rang out. I slowed and peered around the curve of the wall up the drive.

  I was in time to see Stevie scale the gate and throw his leg over the top of it—he hadn’t bothered using the gatepost this time, but had gone straight for the gate, using the ornate iron swirls for footholds. He dropped to the ground just as nimbly as he had before then sprinted to the yellow sports car. He slid inside and closed the door with one smooth motion. The growl of the engine filled the air as Chester rushed the gate, a handgun angled toward the sky as he ran. The rumble of the engine intensified. The car shot backward, red brakes flared, and I caught another glimpse of him in the side view mirror. He looked thrilled, a smirk on his face. Our gazes connected for a second, then the engine roared, and the car accelerated away, sending bits of leaves spinning in its wake.

  When I looked back at Chester, the gun was out of sight. He was breathing a little hard as he shook the gate with one hand. I went up the incline and spoke to him through the bars. “Didn’t you see him on the monitor?”

  He fiddled with the silver hoop in his earlobe as he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “I was in the loo.” He paced away in a small circle. The gate clanged as he came back and gave it another shove. I decided not to ask any more questions about the security arrangements…or about the gun. I knew gun ownership in the UK was more limited than in the States, but I supposed he could be authorized to carry a gun since he was a security guard.

  “Arabella’s okay?”

  He nodded. “She’s in the garden.” His gaze cut back to the road where Lund had disappeared. “He didn’t get to the back of the house. I spotted him as he came up the drive to the front door.”

  “I better speak to Arabella,” I said, thinking of damage control. I wanted to make sure Arabella was okay and see if she was thinking of complaining to Elise about the security arrangements at Tate House—although it’s hard to defend against an aggressive man willing to climb over gates. “If nothing else, Torrie’s probably called her,” I added. I had the code and could let myself in, but I waited. He reluctantly punched the code into the keypad on his side of the gate. It slowly swung open, and he went to the end of the drive, his gaze fixed on the road where the Ferrari had disappeared.

  I left him there and went around the house through the quiet grassy alcove with the iron table to the terrace. I crossed to the edge and spotted Arabella on a landing about halfway down the staircase. I thought she was doing some sort of stretching pose that I’d never seen before. I dropped my tote bag at the top of the stairs and started down.

  “Arabella,” I called. “We had some excitement at the gate, but everything is okay…” She didn’t move. Then I realized that her feet were dangling off the landing, and something about the position was all wrong. The human body, even in the contortions of yoga, wouldn’t normally twist like that. With a sick feeling in my stomach, I surged down the stairs.

  Chapter 11

  AS I HURRIED DOWN THE steps with my gaze fixed on Arabella’s unmoving body, I slipped. I windmilled an arm, recovered my balance, and slowed to a more careful pace.

  My heartbeat thudding, I jogged down the steps and across the wider landings until I reached her. She was near the base of the stairs, but not at the very bottom.

  She was in workout clothes, yoga pants and a spandex sports top. Her hair—solid dark brown without the bold gold highlights that Torrie favored, I was finally able to see—was pulled back in a low, short ponytail. Her head was turned away from me, but now that I was closer, I could see the unnatural bend in the angle of her neck. I swallowed and looked away, drawing in a deep breath before I moved carefully around her to the step below her.

  Her face was whiter than the blooms on the lily of the valley plants that lined the stairs, and her eyes were wide open and fixed. A gust of wind whipped around me. Leaves and a scrap of paper danced across the step above her. The wind stirred her hair, and a few strands fell across the lashes of her blank eyes. I suddenly felt sick and dizzy. If she were alive, she would have reached up to brush the hairs away or tossed her head to shake them free, but she would never move again.

  I sat down on the nearest stair, and looked away, focusing on the flowers as the wind tossed the drooping heads of the lily of the valley. The scrap of paper had caught in the leaves. One corner of the paper flickered in the wind, and I saw print running diagonally across it before another gust of wind waved the leaves, releasing the paper. The breeze whipped it away downhill.

  I heard a voice and turned. Chester’s bulky figure was descending the stairs at a fast clip, but he checked as his foot slipped. The stumble barely slowed him down, and he was directly above me almost before I could rise unsteadily to my feet. I held up a hand. “Don’t move her. She’s…it’s not good,” I said.

  Chester stepped around Arabella and joined me on the lower step. His face changed as soon as he saw her face, his skin going almost as white as Ara
bella’s. He ran his hand over his mouth and jaw then shook his head. “I’ll call 999.” He took out his cell phone and faced the garden, his back to me. With one hand on his hip, his suit jacket flared and moved with the wind, making him look wider than his already substantial width as he spoke quietly into the phone.

  I looked back at Arabella, almost unable to believe that she was dead. But she remained unmoving, her head at that awful angle, her arms splayed, and her feet with her toenails painted seashell pink dangling off the step. She had tiny, delicate feet. The sunlight glittered on her toe ring and a thin gold ankle bracelet. Above the line of the gold chain, her toned calf muscles showed how seriously she worked out. In her form-fitting workout clothes, she looked more like an Olympic athlete, lean and toned, than a film star.

  But it didn’t look like she’d even started her workout today. I twisted around and looked up the stairs. She must have slipped on the way down, like I’d slipped on the step near the top. I could have ended up at the bottom of the steps just like Arabella. I felt a bit light-headed at the thought, and forced myself to keep looking around to keep my mind off that track.

  A yoga mat, still fastened into its tight roll, rested in the flowers at the side of the stairs. A full water bottle had rolled up against one of the landscape lights.

  I fingered my phone, and considered calling Elise. She needed to know what had happened, but I decided to wait until after the police arrived. I didn’t want to think about what Arabella’s death would mean to the filming schedule and the episode that was to feature her, not to mention what Elise’s reaction would be to the news that an up-and-coming star had died while working with us. The wind flung my hair over my eyes, and I pushed it back. I hoped Elise had seen to the insurance.

  Chester’s mention of my name drew my attention back to him as he said, “Yes, Kate is here with me…” His tone turned sharp. “No, I’ll not wait in the house.” He ended the call. “Like the house needs guarding right now,” he muttered as he turned toward me.