The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8)

by Jean G Goodhind

  All she cared about was Lindsey. Perhaps if she had a word, point out that they really knew nothing about him? Not easy. Lindsey was so independent. Her mother rarely interfered with what she did; to do so now might cause trouble.

  Chapter Eleven

  Lindsey Driver had promised her mother to oversee the consigning of the pantomime horse to the care of her grandmother’s pet taxi driver.

  Whilst awaiting his arrival, she was manning Reception at the same time as doing a little job for the chef. She was also singing a daft ditty to herself and wearing a pair of plastic deer antlers that blatantly advertised the fact that she was well and truly entering the spirit of Christmas. Like her mother she was relieved that the office parties were over and childishly excited that from now on it was downhill to food, fun, and whatever else happened along. No more turkeys to stuff, no more slobbering youths armed with sprigs of mistletoe chasing her around the hotel, and no more dancing to old songs from the seventies provided by a DJ wearing a blonde wig and a gold lame waistcoat.

  ‘No more birds to stuff,

  No more jokes to swallow,

  No more singing silly songs,

  They’ll be gone tomorrow.’

  The tune was hardly original and the words made up on the spur of the moment, but Lindsey didn’t care. The countdown to Christmas proper had begun.

  Hidden by the reception desk, she was rolling pieces of streaky bacon around the chipolata sausages that would be served with the turkey on Christmas Day. She wouldn’t normally be doing this. Anna would have been doing the job, but as she was close to giving birth to her second child she’d needed yet another break from her duties. At times there was little point her coming in at all.

  ‘I might give birth here,’ she’d quipped, beaming brightly to Lindsey and her mother. ‘I wonder if I will get gifts from wise men and a nice sheepskin rug from the shepherds. I would like a sheepskin rug. I could put it in front of my coffee table.’

  Honey had reminded her that this was the Green River Hotel, not a stable, and the first aid kit didn’t amount to much more than plasters for cut fingers and, a little against the rules, a supply of headache tablets.

  Anna wasn’t the only one who was slightly indisposed. Head chef Smudger Smith was also feeling less than one hundred per cent fit, though this had nothing to do with pregnancy and everything to do with entering the spirit of Christmas with too much enthusiasm. The simple reason was that he tended to get involved in the office parties, dancing along with them until his legs gave way and he was reminded he had a job to go to in the morning – or rather that he wouldn’t have a job if he didn’t quit the festivities and get to bed, sharpish.

  Banning him from getting involved had not worked. He’d got caught up in other parties outside the hotel, hence the acquisition of the pantomime horse, though he still couldn’t remember where he’d got it from.

  Due to the way the reception desk was constructed – a high counter for guests checking in and out, a lower one for whomever was manning reception, it was easy for Lindsey to get away with the job she was doing.

  The area in-between hid all sorts of paperwork, pens, and scribbled notes referring to things like deliveries, health and safety checks, and the delivery of paper disposables (otherwise known as toilet rolls). The act of rolling bacon around sausages was hidden here too.

  Their one and only resident who talked to ghosts and entertained a long-dead ancestor in her room had fully entered the Christmas spirit too. Mary Jane was as bright as any Christmas decoration, due mainly to her chosen outfit which today was a red padded ensemble that made her look twice the width she actually was. The outfit was termed a ‘lounging suit’ – her favourite attire; it was made of a shiny velour. The coat she wore over it closely resembled a patchwork quilt; Mary Jane was into recycling.

  ‘I’m off to do a little shopping at the Christmas Market,’ she declared, her voice louder than usual, possibly because her deafness was increasing with her years. She was well into her seventies, if not more. Not that she would admit to it.

  At this moment her hearing was further impaired because she was wearing a pair of white fur earmuffs in the shape of rabbit ears. ‘I just love that old-time feel of the little shops down in the alleyways, don’t you?’

  On receiving no response, plus noticing the vague look on Lindsey’s face, Mary Jane paused.

  ‘Anything wrong, honey? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’s that time of year isn’t it? A time for dragging up ghosts from the past – even if you don’t want them dragged up.’

  Mary Jane held one earmuff away from her ear in order to hear more clearly.

  ‘If you’re talking of ghost stories, I’ve pinned a poster up on the notice board. Ghostly Tales at Christmas. A few friends and I will be telling ghost stories in the lounge on Christmas Day. We could repeat the event on Boxing Day as well – after you Brits have held your boxing bouts, that is.’

  Lindsey allowed the ghost of a smile to cross her lips. ‘Historically, Boxing Day has nothing to do with boxing bouts. Boxing Day was the day following Christmas Day when the Lord of the Manor placed gifts of coin and other things in a box as a thank you to his serfs and servants. Then it was shared out amongst them.’

  Mary Jane raised her thin eyebrows which looked as though they’d been drawn on with a pencil. She was genuinely surprised. Genuinely interested too.

  ‘Oh really. Sir Cedric would have done that, I’m sure. He was very generous with his favours.’

  ‘So I hear,’ muttered Lindsey.

  According to what she knew herself and what Mary Jane had imparted, Sir Cedric had liked the ladies, which was, according to legend, how he’d met his doom. Pistols at dawn. His last duel had been the death of him. He’d only been injured, and had managed to get back to the hotel, – which at the time had been his town house. His opponent, the cuckolded husband, had arrived soon after and finished the job with a brass poker. Ignominious, but deserved.

  ‘Excuse me, miss.’

  This time she looked up into an open Asian face. He had a pencil-wide strip of beard on his chin and wore a gold ring in one ear.

  ‘Taxi. You have a passenger to go to St Michael’s Church?’

  She looked at him blankly but managed a smile. For a moment she thought a guest had booked a taxi and somehow she’d forgotten about it. But that couldn’t be. The office party guests not required by the police had all left and those booked in for the Christmas break – an all in price for accommodation, food and seasonal festivities – had not yet arrived. The party from Mallory and Scrimshaw would be back later.

  ‘I’m not sure …’ she began – and then it came to her. He wasn’t talking about a human passenger.

  ‘Ah. Yes. Come this way. You’ll need a hand.’

  She led him into the bar where Gary the barman helped slide the sofa forward. The garishly coloured pantomime horse flopped onto the floor.

  The taxi driver looked bemused. ‘That’s the passenger?’

  Lindsey assured him that it was. ‘Gary will give you a hand.’

  The horse was large and cumbersome and difficult to get out of the door.

  ‘It doesn’t wish to leave the bar,’ the taxi driver remarked.

  Gary grimaced. ‘I’ve had worse. Two pints and some folk turn into a horse’s arse. It’s par for the course.’

  Lindsey grudgingly accepted that the term ‘horse’s arse’ was the in joke of the moment. Probably would be until New Year.

  The horse was bundled into the back seat of the taxi cab, its front legs folded up behind its head.

  Lindsey braved the chill and watched the taxi pull away. The horse seemed to be waving a painted hoof, its goofy grin and big black eyes gazing out through the taxi’s rear window.

  Eyes fixed on the receding brake lights of the taxi cab, she didn’t notice Jake Truebody watching her from his bedroom window.

  He rubbed at his chin, certain that s
he’d swallowed his story, and planning what to do next.

  Her invitation to act as his guide around Bath was welcome. Not that he’d stick with her all the time. There were some aspects of this visit for which he had to be alone. Still, he thought, she was slim and pretty and if being here was only about pleasure, he would have concentrated full time on seducing her. As it was, he had ulterior plans. He had a debt to repay, though neither Lindsey Driver nor her mother would know that. Nobody knew that, only him.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lindsey Driver knew she might be a bit late for her date with the professor, but he could wait.

  She was presently sitting at her laptop in her bedroom, staring at the result thrown up by the Google search engine.

  There were a few entries for the name Truebody, though only one for a professor matching Jake’s description. What brought Lindsey up short was the fact that Professor Jacob Truebody had disappeared just two months ago. An academic, he’d met her father, a wealthy businessman and yachtsman, after Carl Driver had bestowed a large endowment on the professor’s university department.

  Leaning closer to the screen, she lightly tapped her upper lip as she digested the information. Once digested, her thoughts spilled into words.

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser, said Alice as she fell down the rabbit hole. Now if you’re not who you say you are, Professor Jake Truebody, who are you and what are you doing here?’

  She quite often spoke to her computer screen when there were questions to be answered, though mostly when she was alone, and generally in the still of the night. This was most definitely one of those occasions but in broad daylight.

  ‘Now shall I tell the Queen of the Castle about this, or should I keep it to myself?’

  She pondered the question and let out a deep sigh before talking to the screen again.

  ‘My mother says she’s never met this man. OK, she may not have met him, but did she recall this man’s name ever being mentioned by my dad?’

  Normally she would ask her mother outright, but something made her hesitate.

  ‘No. I think I can handle this myself. I am not a child,’ she said to the screen.

  The screen blinked from one page of information to another.

  ‘But I want to know who he is and I think I’m old enough to find that out for myself. Me and my computer. Right?’

  The screen stayed focused on the details of the missing man. Professor Jake Truebody had indeed been a history professor, though his tenure at the state university and other venues seemed short lived.

  Still, there were glowing reports about him, a man known for his work in the prison system, his membership of the local church, and his work with the poor and destitute. ‘Overall, a good egg,’ she murmured. ‘The web tells me he’s Good King Wenceslas, but my instinct tells me he might be a wicked troll.’

  The photograph was fuzzy, the image indeterminate. It could be the Jake Truebody they had staying here, or maybe not. It was hard to tell. She reminded herself that she’d checked his passport. Everything had checked out.

  Reading on, she came across the details of his death, or rather his disappearance, presumed dead. His sister had posted the details. Lindsey took a note of the sister’s name and the email address to which any information about his whereabouts could be sent. Mrs Darleene Van Der Velt, his sister, implored anyone with details of his last known whereabouts to get in touch. His body had never been found but his car and clothes had been left at the edge of the sea.

  ‘The family want closure,’ said the sad missive.

  Her mouth was dry and she tingled with excitement. Taking a deep breath she typed out an email.

  ‘Can I send you a photo of a man claiming to be Professor Jake Truebody. I need to know who he is. I must stress this is very urgent. Please respond asap.’

  She pressed send. The screen flashed blue. Email sent.

  ‘This is my case,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m the one who fell down the rabbit hole and found all this out; therefore I’m the one to give it a go.’ She paused, arms stretched above her to be brought down to rest on her head.

  ‘Can I do it?’ Her voice was little more than a whisper. Her eyes were fixed on the screen. A message came up in the mail box. Message read.

  Her heart thudded wildly in her chest. Now everything was down to Darleene Van Der Velt. How long would it take for her to reply?

  Her question was swiftly answered. A message came through.

  ‘Please do so. I look forward to receiving it. So kind of you to oblige.’

  Now all she had to do was take a decent photo and send it off. Either she had to get her hands on his passport and use that photograph, or take one herself. The latter seemed the one least likely to arouse his suspicion. Could she do it? Could she really solve his true identity all by herself?

  She told herself that she could. ‘Everything will be OK.’

  Taking a deep breath, she sat back in her chair with her hands on her head, shut her eyes, and began to plan. It was going to be fun, she told herself. First the photo; at the same time she had to get under the man’s skin, ask questions that made her sound interested rather than probing.

  ‘I can do it,’ she said to herself. ‘I can do it very well. Honey Driver is not the only crime solver around here. I want to know who you really are, Professor Jake Truebody. And I’m going to find out. You bet your sweet life, I am!’

  Lindsey’s mind was buzzing as she counted sheets, table cloths, and pillowcases before they were stuffed into green canvas bags. Usually she gave every task she undertook her undivided attention, but today was different. Her mind was whirring. Her stomach was fluttering with excitement.

  Professor Jake Truebody was NOT Professor Jake Truebody. This was something she wished to keep to herself.

  Laundry count finished, she went through into her mother’s office and set the dockets needed for laundry collection on her desk.

  ‘All done.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’m off out shortly.’

  Her mother looked up. ‘I know. The professor said he would meet you as arranged.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘He seems quite taken with you.’

  Lindsey could hear the guardedness in her mother’s voice. Tossing her hair back from her face, she stayed non-committal, pretending to make an alteration to the laundry list.

  ‘Uh huh.’

  She waited for the million-dollar question she was sure tingled on her mother’s tongue. It was coming. She could see the pensiveness in the way her mother was twiddling a pen between her fingers – not writing anything, just twiddling. And her lips were moving, her head twitching.

  At last it came. Her tone was hesitant.

  ‘Ummm … there’s nothing going on between you two that I should know about, is there?’

  Lindsey hung her head in order to hide her smile. She’d been expecting this. Honestly, but mothers could be so damned predictable. However, she’d made her mind up. The professor was in her sights. This was a Christmas gift to herself. She was going to find out who he really was if it killed her! Well, not really to killing point. Just dead tired.

  ‘I think I’ll take the camera today. Take a few shots of the Abbey and Pulteney Bridge. Is it in the usual place?’

  ‘Yes. It is,’ replied her mother.

  Lindsey knew that was not the end of it. Her mother was dying to know more.

  ‘Well? Is there anything going on between you?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Her mother squirmed. ‘I didn’t mean to pry. What I meant was …’

  ‘What you meant was, is he out to bed me, wed me, or merely have me provide the service of tour guide.’

  Honey tried to look unperturbed, but Lindsey wasn’t fooled.

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s a professor of history. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ Honey nodded. ‘Right,’ she said again.

  Lindsey could see that her mother had hit t
he buffers about what to say next. What she did next confirmed it. Typical of her mother. When in doubt, eat. She opened the right-hand drawer and picked out a chocolate marzipan.

  Lindsey carried on with what she was doing. There was no way she was going to give anything away unless further investigation revealed Jake Truebody as a convicted axe murderer. Then she’d have to get help.

  Honey went back to checking the bookings for next season. ‘These bookings are slow in coming. Shame. We could do with the deposits to see us through January and February. The exchange rate’s got a lot to do with it. So has the price of fuel. Ditto the fact that some volcano’s erupted somewhere and people are being cautious – as though the eruption is likely to last for the rest of the year.’

  Lindsey gave her mother a direct look that said it all. The words that followed finished it off.

  ‘Forgetting to book an advert with the English Tourist Board has a lot to do with it.’

  Honey coloured up. ‘You’re blaming me?’

  ‘Aren’t you blaming yourself?’

  Honey pulled a face. She really should have made the deadline, but didn’t like bearing the blame.

  ‘OK,’ she said, pen flung down on desk. ‘When business is slow, that’s the time for creative thinking if we want to fill those rooms. Perhaps we could do themed weekends. They’re the in thing, aren’t they?’

  Lindsey shook her head, ‘You don’t really have a clue about themed weekends, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do. Murder weekends. Wine-tasting weekends. Cookery weekends. We could invite a famous TV chef to run a course. It’s bound to be popular.’

  ‘Not with Smudger.’

  Honey’s face dropped.

  Lindsey thought it only fair to point out to her that their head chef was likely to run amok with a meat cleaver should another chef be allowed in the place.

  ‘OK, perhaps not cookery weekends. But there’s bound to be a right sort of weekend for the Green River.’

  Lindsey bucked up at that. ‘We could offer Roman weekends, Georgian weekends, Jane Austen weekends – we could do guided tours. And we don’t need to pay for a guide. I could take people round. Then there’s that one-woman show, the one married to a vicar who collects antique underwear. She’s very good, so I hear. I’m not sure, but I think the show’s called Knickeragua.’