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

by Sara Rosett

  I ended the call, wondering how long it would be before Tara got it…in the morning? They had an electronic entry code system so that guests could arrive after hours and let themselves in—that way, they didn’t have to have someone on duty all night long. Theoretically, Gil could slip in during the night, pack up, and leave without anyone knowing. My fingers hovered over the phone keypad. I knew I needed to call the police. I had to report that Gil had stolen the car…but how could I explain everything that had happened. Yes, officer, he was in my back garden earlier tonight, then he disappeared. No, I didn’t tell the constable about it when he came earlier. And that wasn’t even including finding the bracelet at the inn or anything Gil told me.

  I rubbed my forehead. I didn’t think I could handle trying to summarize everything to an emergency operator. If they let me get through the whole convoluted story, they’d be more likely to send a mental health professional than a police officer. I knew in my gut that I needed to get in touch with Quimby…and tell him everything.

  But I couldn’t leave Alex’s cottage wide open. I trotted back up the steps then slowed as I entered the bright hallway. The little bowl with the keys was empty and had been shoved back against the wall, but otherwise, everything else looked the same. I found a piece of cardboard in the storage closet and taped it over the hole in the back door. I put a kitchen chair under the door handle. That was the best I could do for a security measure.

  As I stepped inside my cottage a few minutes later, Slink, who had been stretched out on her back, flipped onto her feet, shook head to toe, then ambled over to greet me. It was the first normal thing that had happened in hours, and I went through the routine of letting her out and refilling her water bowl before I called Quimby.

  It rang several times. I glanced at the clock. It was after midnight. So much had happened that I’d completely lost track of time. “Quimby,” he said in a sharp voice.

  At least it didn’t sound as if I’d woken him. I identified myself, and he cut in quickly. “I got the message about the bracelet. It will be picked up first thing tomorrow.”

  “Oh, good, but I was actually calling about something else. Alex’s car has been stolen. Gil Brayden took it.”

  “Brayden? How do you know this?”

  I described exactly how I’d found Gil in Alex’s cottage. “He’s hurt. A head injury.” Quimby muttered something under his breath then asked for a detailed description of Alex’s car. “I’ll call this in. I’ll be out there shortly. Are you still in his house?”

  “No, I’m at my house.”

  “Fine. I need information on a few more things. For instance, I’d like to know why you and Mrs. Owen were searching Gil Brayden’s room.”

  My heart sunk. I would have to tell him everything. “Yes, I have quite a bit to tell you.”

  “See you shortly,” he said and ended the call.

  I rubbed my forehead. “Coffee.” I would probably be up for hours. Maybe the jolt of caffeine would help me think more clearly. A good cup of dark roast might soften up Quimby, too. I doubted it would actually have much impact, but it was worth a shot. Once I had the coffee brewing, I called Alex. It was late, but his car had been stolen. He should know about it.

  “Sorry to call so late. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid,” I said as soon as he answered.

  “What?” he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

  “The MG has been stolen.”

  I cringed in the silence. He loved that car.

  “Is that all? You nearly gave me a heart attack, Kate. You said it was bad news. I was picturing you hurt or something…” He stopped and cleared his throat.

  “No, I’m fine, but I know how much you like that car.”

  “We’ve been through this before—it’s only a car. As long as you’re okay…and you are okay?”

  “Yes. Perfectly fine. I may not be after Quimby gets here, though. He’s not going to be happy.”

  “Quimby?”

  “Yes. It all has to do with Arabella’s death. I better start with the notes,” I said, thinking it would be a good rehearsal for my upcoming conversation with the inspector. I’d been reluctant to explain what had happened in detail over the phone, but since I was planning to tell Quimby everything soon, I decided it didn’t matter now.

  “So this paparazzi guy, Brayden, stole my car,” Alex said after I’d caught him up. “And he also had jewelry that Arabella always wore?”

  “Yes.”

  “You said Quimby is on his way over right now?”

  “Yes,” I said, still dreading what Quimby would have to say about me withholding evidence.

  Alex’s breath came out in a whoosh. “Okay. That’s good. I’m leaving now.”

  “To come back? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t care what time it is. You’re in the middle of something very dangerous.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do. I’m already packed. I can be on the road in a few minutes.”

  “Alex, I’m fine. I have Slink here with me.”

  “I’m coming back,” he said.

  My phone beeped with an incoming call. “I’ve got to go. That’s Quimby. Call you back?”

  “Yes. Definitely,” Alex said.

  I switched to the other call. “Ms. Sharp,” Quimby said after identifying himself, “I just got a report that the MG was spotted on the side of the road a few miles outside of Nether Woodsmoor.”

  “Abandoned?”

  “No, with Mr. Brayden still in it. A passing motorist reported the car went straight off the road into a field. No damage to the car, but when emergency got to him, he was unconscious. That head injury you mentioned, probably. I’m going to the hospital he was taken to as it’s on my way to Nether Woodsmoor. I’ll be along after I’ve seen Brayden, but it may be tomorrow, depending on how long it takes at the hospital.”

  A reprieve from Quimby’s questions, then. “I’ll be here in Nether Woodsmoor all day tomorrow…er, today,” I amended. Technically, it was Saturday. “It’s a day off for the documentary,” I explained.

  “Good. I’ll speak to you soon,” he said.

  I called Alex’s number, but it went to voicemail. Maybe he was already on the road and couldn’t answer since talking on cell phones while driving wasn’t allowed. I was sure he’d call or text the next time he stopped. I left him a message then drained the last of my coffee and put the mug in the sink.

  It didn’t sound as if Quimby would make it here before tomorrow, but I was too wired for sleep. I picked up my Moleskine notebook. I wanted to write down what Gil had told me in case he wasn’t able to speak to Quimby. My thoughts skittered away from that scenario. I tucked my legs under me, curled up at the end of the couch, and started writing.

  The paper was covered with scrawls, lines, and notes by the time I finished. It took me quite a while to get it all down on paper, and by that time, I’d burrowed farther down into the cushions and rested my head against the back of the couch. I stifled a yawn as I looked over the messy paper…something flickered in my mind…something about shapes…rectangles and squares and boxes. Lines, too, but I couldn’t quite grasp it. I blinked and refocused on the paper, thinking I should go make more coffee, but it seemed like too much work even to get up off the couch.

  Gradually, I became aware of a growing light in the room. What was I doing sleeping on the couch? I rubbed my neck and struggled upright. Then I saw my notebook open on my lap, the pages covered with my handwriting and lots of little arrows and stars and exclamation points.

  I swung my feet to the floor and scrubbed my hand across my face then went to brew some coffee. The sky was lightening, brightening the room, but it was still very early, four thirty. Slink dragged herself off her bed and followed me slowly into the kitchen, then went to stand by the back door, a slightly reproachful look on her face. I got the coffee going, then opened the door for her. “Sorry, girl. I know it’s too early to be up.”

&nb
sp; The cool morning air engulfed me as she brushed by me and trotted down the steps. I returned and waited in front of the coffeemaker like a zombie.

  I poured myself a huge, aromatic mug and sipped. It burned but it was so worth it. I checked my phone and saw I had a text from Alex saying he was on the road and had stopped for coffee. He’d call or text later. I retrieved my notebook and skimmed over what I’d written last night, trying to revive that fragment of thought that I couldn’t quite grasp. It had seemed so important…something to do with shapes…and lines, too, I thought. Something geometric…? And then I had it.

  I scrambled for my phone and flicked through the photos I’d taken of Tate House before Arabella arrived. I checked them, skimming through, looking at the furniture and decorative objects. I found the photos of the upstairs hall and went still as several things crystalized in my mind.

  The jingle of Slink’s collar as she came up the steps to the back door pulled me out of my reverie. She was ready to get back to her bed and headed straight for it when she came inside. I was closing the door when a male voice carried through the half-light from the direction of the path.

  “Don’t see why we have to go down so early.”

  I recognized that voice. It was Sylvester. I watched through the half-closed door as Torrie’s short frame appeared. Her arms were crossed over a flat box she had pressed to her chest. Sylvester, taller, but moving more slowly, was a step behind her. She stopped and spun toward him. “Because we don’t want that annoying constable to see us drop this off. He’s been there the last two days. I don’t like it.”

  “Don’t see why it matters. We’re out of here today—”

  “Shush.” Torrie made a chopping motion. “We’re getting rid of this one now.” She turned and went on. After a moment, Sylvester dragged on behind her, an irked expression on his face.

  I didn’t move until they’d disappeared down the path. They were leaving, and Quimby wasn’t here. I doubted they were going somewhere nice and respectable where the police could track them down. Once they were gone, there would only be Gil’s story about what had happened, and he wasn’t exactly the most reliable witness, I thought with a sinking feeling. Quimby might give me the benefit of the doubt when it came to the threatening note, but I didn’t think Scotland Yard would be so lenient. And now I was linked to Gil—sneaky, car-stealing Gil. Would they believe his story? Would they believe mine?

  What I needed was something solid, proof that Gil’s story was true. If I’d worked it out correctly…then I knew exactly where to find it. My breathing quickened. No one was at Tate House…and I had the code to unlock the gate and the door. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. I set my coffee on the counter and hurried back to the front room. I’d kicked off my shoes last night while I was on the couch. I put my shoes on, grabbed my phone, and switched it to silent. Slink, who was back on her cushion, watched me without moving her head, her gaze tracking me. I patted her head. “Don’t worry, girl. I’ll be quick.”

  Chapter 30

  I TUCKED MY HAIR BEHIND my ears, added my keys to my crossbody bag then went out the back door and through the garden. I paused at the gate. The footpath was empty. I slipped through the gate, closed it soundlessly behind me, and jogged toward Tate House. It would take Torrie and Sylvester at least fifteen minutes to get to the village and back to Tate House. I knew this because I’d walked the path so often. I didn’t linger and kept up my quick pace. The sky was shifting to a pale lemon-yellow as I hurried along, but the trees lining the side of the road were in deep shadow.

  I’d almost reached the point where the drive branched off the path and curved up to Tate House when a whisper of movement made me freeze. I stood in the deep shadow at the side of the path as the swishing sound grew louder. I stepped back into the trees. It couldn’t be Torrie or Sylvester. They were on the way to the village. They couldn’t have doubled back without me seeing them. A figure on a bike swept out of the drive, coasted around the sweep of the curve in the path then resumed pedaling. I barely had time to process the thought that it was Violet on the bike as she zoomed away, her figure diminishing. Was everyone in Nether Woodsmoor an early riser this morning? Was Violet out for her morning exercise? I shook my head. Not this early. And Tate House was not remotely close to the bungalow where Violet said she was staying. Did she know about the money? Was that why she hadn’t returned to London? In any case, it didn’t look like she was coming back, so I stepped out of the trees.

  As I climbed the steep incline to the gate at Tate House, I paged through the notebook until I found the code then punched it in. After a pause, it began to creep open. I slipped through the opening then punched in the code to close the gate. It halted then labored back the other direction. I went up the drive, checking over my shoulder to make sure the gate closed. I put in the front door code and tried the handle, tensed for the shriek of an alarm, but the door opened smoothly. I stepped into the silent house and took a few deep breaths. The quick pace up the drive had nothing to do with my winded breathing. It was my nerves that made me sound so out of shape.

  It was still dark enough outside that most of the room was in shadow, but I didn’t want to turn on a light. I took a step, and my foot bumped into a large bundle. Several suitcases sat beside the front door, packed and ready to go. Torrie and Sylvester weren’t kidding about leaving. A piece of paper folded in thirds stuck up from the exterior pocket of an overnight bag. I pushed the folded paper open enough to see that it was a printed airline ticket reservation, Manchester to Heathrow, departing this afternoon with two passengers listed, Torrie and Sylvester.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and I jumped. Telling myself to calm down, I took out my phone. I was completely alone and had plenty of time before Torrie and Sylvester came back. A text message from Alex read, Almost back to Nether Woodsmoor. Talk to you later today.

  Best to be methodical and check the downstairs first, I thought, giving the ground floor a quick tour. I punched the buttons to call Alex as I walked through the rooms. He answered and said, “Hey, sorry to wake you. I thought you wouldn’t get the text until later.”

  “You’re really here?”

  “Almost. I’m a few miles out. I missed most of the traffic. Roads are quiet. I’m getting more coffee. Did you talk with Quimby?”

  “No, he had to take a detour to the hospital.” I explained what had happened with Gil.

  The ground floor rooms looked unchanged. The suitcases by the door were the only sign of Torrie and Sylvester. I made a quick tour of the kitchen where the light over the island was on, and I saw some signs of habitation. The trash bin was overflowing, and two mugs sat in the sink, dark rings of coffee at their base.

  “What are you doing up so early? It’s not even five.”

  “Searching Tate House for a pile of cash,” I said.

  “What?”

  I went back through the large room to the frosted glass staircase. “It’s why Arabella was killed, but there’s not a shred of proof, and with Quimby coming today, and the case going to Scotland Yard…well, when Torrie and Sylvester went out, I came up here to have a look.”

  “Scotland Yard?” Alex asked.

  “Yes, I didn’t get to tell you about that last night. Quimby says Scotland Yard will take over. I guess the transfer hasn’t been made yet or isn’t official because Quimby went to talk to Gil, and he’s coming to talk to me.” I paused at the top of the stairs. “Of course they wouldn’t leave it here, out in the open,” I murmured. It had to be in one of the bedrooms.

  “Leave what out in the open?” Alex asked. “Wait—Torrie and Sylvester went out? Where would they go at this time of the morning?”

  “To the postbox—that’s how they’re moving the cash. I worked it out last night and this morning. They’re mailing it—that must be what they’re doing. They’re sending it off through the Royal Mail so they can pick it up somewhere else. I saw one of the boxes had a customs form so they have to be sending it out of the cou
ntry. Arabella said she was leaving on a long foreign holiday. I bet she was traveling to wherever she was sending the cash. Now Torrie and Sylvester have their bags packed and boarding passes for a flight to Heathrow. They can go anywhere from there.”

  I stopped at the door to Arabella’s room to make sure my memory was right. The tangle of clothes and shoes still ranged around the furniture and floor, and the luggage was all there, except for one piece. The only other change that I could see was that the ironing board was no longer in the room.

  “What cash?”

  “The cash that Arabella stole from her ex, Stevie Lund. His family is rather shady—drugs.” During my short trip upstairs on the day that Arabella died, I hadn’t explored all the rooms, but I did now, working my way down the hall. The next door opened to a bare and utilitarian flight of stairs descending to a landing. It was the back staircase, the one that went down to the kitchen.

  I looked in the bath at the end of the hall, but it was too small. “Remember his dad was in the news?” I said, “Drug lord, got off on a technicality? Gil said Stevie moves cash for his dad. I’m fuzzy on how that part worked exactly, but Gil Brayden interviewed a woman who lives on the same floor as Stevie. She says Arabella went to his flat alone and made several trips out of there, carrying heavy bags filled with cash. Then she had Torrie contact Paul and move up their arrival date.” I had worked out the timeline last night when I jotted down everything. “The day after she took the cash, Arabella made plans to arrive here in Nether Woodsmoor early and insisted we move her someplace more secure. The threatening notes were an excuse to hire two guards and retreat to a secure house, but they weren’t guarding her. They were guarding the cash,” I said, working my way up the other side of the hall now.

  The next room had probably been Chester’s. The bed was made, but looked rumpled. The rest of the room was bare and devoid of any personal possessions.