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

by Sara Rosett

  “Torrie and Sylvester are on their way back. They turned back when they got your call, so they should arrive within a few minutes. The ambulance…or police, or both, I suppose, will be here soon, too,” he said.

  I nodded and took a deep breath. I was relieved that I didn’t feel as shaky as I had a few moments ago. I was still trembling, but didn’t feel light-headed anymore. “When did she come out here?” I asked.

  He rubbed his hand across his chin again, his fingers brushing against the silver hoop earring. “About half an hour ago, maybe more,” he said. “She told me to stay inside. She wanted to be alone.”

  He looked so upset that I said, “I don’t know if you could have done anything. She must have slipped…even if you were out here, you couldn’t have prevented this…” I shrugged. Unless he’d been in front of her and managed to break her fall, there was no way he could have saved her. “I nearly fell, too, on my way down. It could have happened to anyone.”

  Chester’s heavy brow knit together. “My foot skidded, too.”

  “Yes, it did.” I’d seen him struggle to get his balance, but with the shock of finding Arabella, my mind was moving slowly. I’m sure my face reflected his troubled look. We both moved carefully around Arabella and headed up the steps, slowing as we neared the top.

  Four steps from the terrace, I pointed to a shallow dip in the step where a puddle of water reflected the sky. “I think I slipped here. It’s just a little bit of water.” A ground cover with small purple flowers edged the stairs on each side, the splash of color spilling over onto the steps and filling in around the landscape lights.

  “Or maybe here.” Chester studied the step above it where another pool of water shimmered in a low-lying area.

  A door at the back of the house opened. I was high enough on the steps that my head was level with the terrace, and I could see Sylvester come out the door from the kitchen. He crossed the terrace in a rapid stride. Torrie stopped in the doorway and braced herself, her hand against the doorframe, as she scanned the terrace. I was surprised that she didn’t follow Sylvester outside, but then I remembered her allergies and her fear of bee stings.

  Chester threw up an arm. “Don’t come down. It’s dangerous.” He went up the steps, giving the water puddles a wide berth. I was doing the same thing when Sylvester tried to push by Chester.

  Chester gripped his cousin’s arm and jerked him back. “It’s dangerous, I said. She slipped at the top and fell.”

  Sylvester surveyed the steps, his gaze going from the puddles to Arabella below us. “You’re sure she’s dead?” he asked, looking from Chester to me. “There’s nothing we can do?”

  “No, not a thing,” Chester said.

  Sylvester stepped back to the terrace and gave Torrie a little nod. “It’s true. Arabella is dead.” Torrie raised a hand to her mouth, but wasn’t able to stifle her sob. She spun away from us and ran directly into the brown-suited form of Detective Inspector Quimby.

  Chapter 12

  I WOULDN’T HAVE THOUGHT TORRIE would be the type of person to cry, even at the news of the death of a friend, but I pressed another tissue into her hand and wondered if I should call one of the emergency people in to give her a sedative. That sounded very antiquated, giving the crying woman something to knock her out, but Torrie was weeping in a way that worried me. It was full-blown sobbing, and she only paused for a second to gulp in air so she could continue sobbing. Her eyelids were puffy and red, and she couldn’t breathe through her nose. I seriously wondered if she’d be able to stop crying. I frowned. Maybe it would be better to have someone get Inspector Quimby. He had asked me to take Torrie inside and stay with her.

  I’d met Inspector Quimby when I’d first arrived in Nether Woodsmoor. I hadn’t been a big fan of him last year—he had placed me on his list of suspects, after all—but I now knew that he was methodical and diligent and also carried tissues because his job often brought him into contact with people who were devastated.

  I had wanted to ask Quimby why he was at Tate House, but I decided that since everything was so chaotic, I’d hold my question until later and do as he asked. The small pack of tissues he’d handed me from inside his jacket pocket didn’t last more than a minute after I got Torrie inside.

  I managed to get her into the morning room at the front corner of the house away from the windows that overlooked the terrace. I didn’t want her to see the body bag, which I knew would have to come up the stairs at some point.

  “Torrie,” I said in the firm voice I used to get interns to pay attention, “you’ve got to get a grip on yourself and calm down.” She was halfway through the box of tissues I’d found in the hall bathroom upstairs. “You’ll be no help at all if you can’t talk to the police.” She nodded and sucked in several shaky breaths. “I’ll try,” she said through her tears.

  “What you need is a strong cup of tea.” I sounded like Louise, whose recommendation for any problem always included either food or drink. I was still more of a coffee girl, but there was something comforting about ritual and routine, and I figured tea would be what Torrie would want.

  Torrie nodded and pressed a tissue to her eyes. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  I found an unopened box of tea bags on the counter in the kitchen beside my tote bag. Someone, probably Constable Albertson, must have brought it inside for me. I waited for the water to boil, relieved that I didn’t hear more audible crying from the front of the house. I returned with the steaming cup of berry-flavored tea, hoping that in the time it had taken for the water to boil that Torrie had pulled herself together, but the morning room was empty. Had she gone back outside? She hadn’t passed through the kitchen, but other doors opened onto the terrace, too. I checked in the dining room and the study, but they were both empty.

  Still holding the saucer and tea cup, I climbed the glass staircase, its suspension wires shifting slightly with my weight. I paused at the top of the stairs. “Torrie?”

  On either side of the carpet runner, the shiny pale oak flooring of the hallway extended to the left and right of the stairs. I took a few steps to the nearest doorway on the left and bumped my shin on a decorative trunk. Framed pictures on top of a crocheted tablecloth rocked, but didn’t fall over. I peeked in the doorway of the first bedroom. The large sitting room in shades of pale blue and yellow would have been charming—if you could see it without the veneer of clothes and shoes scattered around the room. A large designer handbag sat barely inside the doorframe, a pink scarf tied to the strap and a slim mailing box poking out of the drawstring top.

  Several empty Louis Vuitton suitcases in the middle of the room signaled that this was Arabella’s room. Clothes were draped over the chairs, piled on the ironing board, and puddled on the floor. “That doesn’t look safe,” I muttered, seeing the green kimono balled up next to the iron, but then I saw the cord of the iron was unplugged and twisted in the folds of silk. At least someone—probably Torrie—had the foresight to unplug the iron. Shoes, many of them with red soles, dotted the floor at random intervals where they’d been kicked off.

  I thought of Arabella’s lifeless body on the stairs. She’d never again kick off her shoes and walk barefoot across the carpet, probably trampling on silk and linen and cashmere without a thought.

  I turned away, shaking my head over parallel scratches in the wood floor. The flooring had been pristine throughout the house when I’d completed the walk-through before Arabella arrived. Someone had dragged a suitcase down the hall and marred the floor in the process. I was sure we’d have to pay for the scrapes, but move-out damages were the least of my worries now.

  I was about to tap on the door across the hall when I heard the sound of a toilet flushing from behind the closed door of the hall bath.

  I retreated down the stairs, reheated the tea, and came back into the sitting room where the suspended staircase quivered. Torrie trotted down, her ballet shoes making no sound on the frosted glass steps. She was no longer sobbing, only patting at her eyes wit
h a wilted tissue.

  She reached the bottom step and started as if I’d jumped out from behind a door. “Oh, Kate, you surprised me.” She patted her chest. “I went upstairs to wash my face.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. Here’s your tea.”

  She wadded the tissue into a ball in her hand, then took the cup and saucer and dropped down into an armchair, looking limp and spent. She took a long sip of the tea, and smiled sadly. “Berry-infused.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  She lifted the cup and saucer. “The tea. It’s a special kind, Arabella’s current favorite—was, I mean—her current favorite.” I was afraid the tears would well up again, but she swallowed and went on. “You can’t find it here in Nether Woodsmoor. Arabella sent me and Sylvester to Upper Benning to get some for her.”

  “The box was on the counter in the kitchen, and I didn’t realize. Would you like something else?”

  “No, it’s fine.” She took another sip then shook her head. “I do wonder, though, if I hadn’t left…if I’d been here, then maybe she wouldn’t have gone out into the garden. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened.” She stared into her cup.

  I didn’t have an answer for that so I stayed silent. She took a slow sip of tea, and I decided I didn’t need to get the tissue box. She rested the cup and saucer on her leg and let her head fall to the back of the chair. She looked exhausted from her crying jag. Above the point of her chin, the skin around her eyes and nose was still pink.

  I perched on another chair and wondered what was going on in the garden. A row of official vehicles now filled the driveway, but I hadn’t seen anyone, except for Constable Albertson. He had poked his head into the morning room earlier, taken one look at Torrie’s shoulders, which were shaking with her sobs, and said, “Right, looks like you have everything under control,” before disappearing. As far as I knew, no one from the police or emergency services had entered the house.

  Torrie opened her eyes and took another long sip. “Thanks for this.”

  “Sure, it was no problem. Is there someone you’d like for me to call?”

  “No.” She straightened, sitting up in the chair as she placed the empty cup and saucer on a side table. “I’m okay now. Sorry I fell apart. It was just so…shocking. I don’t quite know what came over me.”

  “She was your friend. It’s totally understandable,” I said, but then I remembered Torrie’s tight lips when Arabella ordered her around in the kitchen.

  “We were friends.” Torrie put a slight emphasis on the verb. “I suppose that’s why I cried. We were best friends…once. That all changed after The Red Poppy. She was famous after that.” She widened her eyes and lifted one shoulder in a what-can-you-expect motion. “Lately, she saw me as more of an employee than a friend, but that doesn’t erase the past, does it? All those years sharing a tiny apartment and scrimping to get by. We kept the heat so low that when we got home from waitressing and auditions we actually put on more layers.” She toyed with the empty tea cup, tilting it one way then another as a smile softened the sharp angles of her face. “And the food—beans on toast, for days on end. If one of us were flush with cash, we’d get fish and chips. Now, it’s lobster or nothing. Nothing but the best for Arabella. Or it was.” She set the cup down with a click. “Who’s back there now?” she asked with a tilt of her head toward the garden.

  “I’m not sure, but I did see the local constable and, of course, the detective inspector. He’s the man in the brown suit.”

  Her head swiveled toward me sharply. “An inspector? Why?”

  Now it was my turn to lift a shoulder. I’d wondered why Quimby had shown up so quickly, too. “Well, she’d had death threats so—”

  “But it was an accident. She slipped and fell.”

  “I’m sure they have to…check everything,” I said, but it did seem like they’d been out there a long time. “I think that’s always the case when someone dies suddenly.”

  “But why would an inspector be here now? Don’t those things take time? The local people first—the constable—and then later the detectives? The police force here in Nether Woodsmoor is small, isn’t it?”

  The same question had crossed my mind, and my thoughts flashed back to that shiny puddle on the stone steps, but I wasn’t about to go into that here with her, not when the tears had finally stopped. “No, it’s quite a small village—”

  “Then why is there an inspector here so soon?” She pushed her hair behind one ear with quivering fingers. “I don’t think I can talk to a detective…all those questions. It wasn’t too bad talking to the constable about the notes—he was only a local bloke, but I don’t know that I can face more questions today. And why is it taking so long? What are they doing out there?”

  Her voice rose with each question. Trying to prevent another crying jag, I said, “I’m sure it will be okay—”

  “You don’t think it means that they think something else happened, do you?” Torrie clearly hadn’t even realized I was speaking. “That it wasn’t an accident?” She leaned forward, her posture intense. “Because that’s what Chester said. She’d fallen. It’s one of those horrible, tragic accidents. I mean, yes, she got nasty notes, but no one would ever actually do anything. That’s what she always said.”

  “But Arabella did seem worried. The day I saw the man in the garden, she was afraid at first. And then with the finial falling…”

  Torrie swished a hand through the air, brushing away my questions. “Arabella was an actress. She loved the attention. And once she was the center of attention, she’d milk it for all it was worth. She couldn’t help it. That’s just the way she was.”

  “But yesterday, you both seemed to be worried about those notes.”

  Torrie glanced at the door to the hallway then leaned another inch closer. “Arabella thought she could play up the whole situation—the notes and having a stalker.” Torrie made finger quotes as she said the last word. “She thought a few stories in the press about things like that would give her an edge when it came to The Darkness. It is a psychological thriller, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of it.” I didn’t know how anyone could have not heard of it. An updated take on Gaslight, but with a shocking twist—didn’t all thrillers have to have a shocking twist?—it had been a best-selling book and now a feature film based on the book was in preproduction. “But there really was someone in the garden.” I was sure of that. “And she did receive notes, right? She didn’t make those up. You gave them to Constable Albertson.”

  “Of course the notes were real, but it was the degree of the thing. Once we realized it wasn’t Stevie in the garden, then we both knew there was nothing to worry about. With the Hibberts here, Stevie couldn’t get to Arabella. All he could do was send those notes. But the press wouldn’t know that. You and I both know a story about a star’s personal life mirroring their on-screen life is catnip to editors—and to the public.”

  But I’d seen Stevie climb the gatepost and get onto the grounds of Tate House. He hadn’t been out of view long. Was he gone long enough to catch Arabella on the stairs and give her a shove?

  The sound of a door opening and closing echoed through the house. Torrie started as her gaze flew to mine. “Who is that?”

  “I’m sure it’s the constable or one of the officers.” But it was Detective Quimby who walked into the sitting room with Constable Albertson on his heels.

  Torrie and I stood as Quimby crossed the room. He nodded to me and said, “Thank you for your help.” Then he introduced himself to Torrie.

  Despite the worries she’d voiced earlier, Torrie composed herself and didn’t look nervous to me as she greeted Inspector Quimby. But Torrie had been an actress before she’d become Arabella’s assistant.

  Quimby said, “I’m sorry about Ms. Emsley. I have a few questions I need to ask you, if you feel up to it.”

  “Yes, of course.” She motioned to the chair where I had been sitting, and said, “Kate, you wouldn’t
mind getting the inspector a cup of tea, would you?”

  Her tone and manner were distinctly Arabella-like, and I was taken aback. How did I suddenly find myself in Torrie’s position with her taking over Arabella’s role? “Don’t trouble yourself,” Quimby said quickly. “I actually need to speak to Ms. Sharp first. Constable Albertson will ask you a few preliminary questions, Ms. Mayes.”

  Relief flashed across Torrie’s face.

  “If you’ll come with me, Ms. Sharp,” Quimby said, and I followed him to the kitchen.

  At the table where Sylvester had played cards, he pulled out a chair for me so that I was seated with my back to the window then sat opposite me. I had a quick glimpse of people moving back and forth across the terrace as well as a man tracing a brush with delicate twists and swipes over the frame of one of the lounge chairs.

  Quimby took out his phone and flicked through several screens. He looked exactly the same as when I’d first met him, a nondescript man with brown hair in a brown suit in his mid- to late-thirties, I guessed. I’d thought he looked rather bland when I first met him, until I noticed his sharp green eyes, which were startling in his plain face.

  He trained those eyes on me, and I felt like I was under intense scrutiny, even though his question was innocuous. “I understand you’re the go-between, running interference between this group and your film?”

  “Yes. That sums it up.”

  “Not your normal job.” It was a statement. The first time he’d interviewed me, I’d explained to him what being a location scout entailed.

  “No, but when someone like Ms. Emsley asks for something, you give it to her.”

  “Why did she want you?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe Torrie can tell you.”

  “You had perhaps met Ms. Emsley at some point in the past? Connected online?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I felt a twinge of unease. “I didn’t know her at all.” I stressed the last two words.