Chapter Twenty-one
Doherty had acted on the information she’d given him. His men had done a thorough search of Scrimshaw’s flat but nothing resembling the parcel had been found, certainly not a Bible.
Doherty had put it to her that a collector would keep something that valuable under lock and key. Honey admitted that he was probably right.
So here she was, sitting in Reception and licking her wounds, or at least the end of her ballpoint pen. Honey was making quite a meal of it when she remembered she had something better to put into her mouth. Chocolates. Foil-wrapped marzipan, bought on a whim to celebrate the time of year when diets flew right out of the window – at least until New Year.
Anyway, she reasoned, eating chocolate was traditional at this time of year and didn’t count towards weekly calorie intake. Calories didn’t apply at Christmas, because lumpy bits didn’t matter until she attempted to squeeze into a new bikini sometime in May.
Once the chocolate was in her mouth, she set to with the list again. Her nose had to be to the grindstone if she were to solve this murder.
The list was a start, though she was having trouble getting her head around it. Under the word motive she’d written, ‘money, sex, jealousy, blackmail, theft, unrequited or requited love, outright hate’. Under the word ‘suspects’, she’d written the name of every person employed by Mallory and Scrimshaw, plus the names of authors published by the company. Lindsey had gone online to get her their names.
Despite wracking her brains, the list on the left side of the paper hadn’t grown much. The list on the right side was huge; it seemed the world and his wife could have killed Clarence Scrimshaw.
And now there was a Bible to consider.
Her mother popped in for coffee, her mind whirling with ideas for her new business venture. Honey’s ear was bending under the weight of it all. An idea popped into her mother’s head, and she just had to run it past someone – usually Honey.
‘I thought I could give a discount for the over-eighties – seeing as they need to hook up with a partner PDQ.’
She caught Honey’s dropped jaw and went on to explain.
‘For the over-eighties, time is of the essence in affairs of the heart.’
Nobody could argue with that.
‘For their hearts, period,’ remarked Honey. ‘Are you providing defibrillators?’
Her mother sucked in her breath. ‘I shall treat that comment with the contempt it deserves. My new business is going to be run on very professional lines. For instance, I’ve got it in mind to arrange dinner parties for my clients. Equal numbers of male and female members will be invited. No more than ten people, I think; any more than that and it’s no longer an intimate dinner party. I’ve arranged one for the day after Boxing Day. Care to come?’
Honey declined the invitation and fended off the impending pressure with a ready-made excuse.
‘There’ll be a lot of clearing up to do, plus arrangements to be made for New Year.’
‘You’ve got staff to do that.’
‘I’m the boss. I have to be here. Anyway, I don’t need to look for a man. I’ve got Doherty.’
Her mother pursed her lips and looked visibly disapproving. ‘So, you’ve landed a catch. But is he the right catch? Who knows how many other fish are out there waiting to be landed?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’ll throw in my line for a salmon and end up with a stink fish,’ Honey muttered.
‘There’s no such thing as a stink fish. And anyway, I think you could be making a big mistake. You don’t have to marry Doherty.’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You do?’
If Smudger hadn’t come barging in, hammering on about the Dover sole starter for Christmas dinner, she might have taken more notice of her mother’s expression. As it was, Smudger’s contentment was far more important than discussing her mother’s dating website for the over-sixties.
Mary Jane found Honey’s mother sitting in the residents’ lounge, looking stunned.
She touched her shoulder. ‘Gloria. Is something wrong?’
Honey’s mother’s mouth hung open when she looked up at her.
‘I don’t know that I should tell you.’
Measuring the gravity of the occasion by the look on Gloria’s face, Mary Jane sat down beside her and took her hand.
‘Now come on, Gloria. I’m your friend. You can tell me.’
Gloria thought about it. She came to a decision. ‘You mustn’t breathe a word,’ she hissed, leaning close to Mary Jane’s ear. ‘I think I’m going to become a grandmother again.’
‘Aw, right,’ said Mary Jane, not quite getting it. ‘Your other child is becoming a parent?’
‘Other child?’ Gloria Cross drew in her chin until the wrinkles sagged around her neck, – something she usually avoided like the plague. ‘I haven’t got any other child!’
Mary Jane’s head jerked up as the truth hit her. ‘You mean … Honey? Are you sure?’
Gloria nodded slowly. ‘I’ve counted how many chocolates she’s been eating. It’s a lot. Too many to be normal.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Honey was perusing a handwritten list of party bookings. The list detailed deposits paid and final sums once the booze and food had been added in.
The archaic method of record-keeping was something she insisted on, despite Lindsey’s assurances that the computer was totally dependable.
Lindsey was scathing about it. ‘Handwriting is a great skill, but technologically you’re still in the Stone Age when it comes to keeping bona fide records.’
Honey had stood her ground. ‘Yeah, yeah.’
No matter how much Lindsey assured her that the computer would not digest the details, pass it on to third parties, or jumble it up into an incoherent mess, Honey backed the computer records up with a written record. OK, she admitted to being old-fashioned, perhaps even a bit lazy. The great thing about writing, as she’d pointed out to her daughter, was that it needed no power to make it work. There was no need for her to learn how to use a pen and paper because she’d learned it years ago. Practice makes perfect. Apart from that, why learn the ropes when Lindsey and the computer were bosom buddies? Not that she’d voiced that particular kernel of truth.
Paper records could be referred to any time, any place, and were crumb-resistant. The computer was less so, bits of stray debris getting trapped between the keys.
She ran her finger down the list of dates, companies, and payment details. She paused when she came to Clarence Scrimshaw, the man who’d been murdered and pegged out on his own desk. At first sight there didn’t seem to be a problem, but the man was dead, and before he’d died he’d been acting out of character. It wouldn’t hurt to do a rerun, so she checked the records again, at the same time reaching for another chocolate.
First she checked the date of the booking, only seven days before the poor man had been murdered. At face value, there was nothing wrong with that; no discrepancies with the booking. Mr Scrimshaw getting himself murdered before enjoying the party was pretty bad luck, but life goes on, and he’d obliged her by paying his bill before shuffling off his mortal coil.
Running her finger across the company name and the total cost she came to the payment details. He’d given her the correct debit card details. No problems. The bank hadn’t stopped the payment for any reason, and money had been swiftly transferred from his account to that of the Green River Hotel.
‘Good old Clarence Scrimshaw,’ she said to herself. ‘He may have been a skinflint, but he paid up on time.’
‘You what, dear?’
She looked up to see that Mary Jane had paused on her way to wherever she was going.
Honey relaxed against the back rest of her chair, hands folded on top of her head. The right-hand drawer of the reception desk was open. She spotted another box of rum truffles.
‘This guy who got murdered was rumoured to be a skinflint, yet he paid his bill up front. Now if he was that much of a skinflint,
surely he wouldn’t have done that. Would he?’
‘Just because he was careful, didn’t mean that he wasn’t honourable,’ Mary Jane stated.
‘And to die like that at Christmas. What would his relatives say? – That is, if he had any relatives. None have been found so far, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t got any. If he did then they would no doubt remember him at the same time every year and shed a tear – that’s if his passing brought tears to their eyes. If they considered him an old skinflint they probably wouldn’t care. Probably raise a glass in a toast and thank him for leaving them his money.’
‘The way of the world,’ Mary Jane said sagely, and headed for the residents’ lounge.
Honey stopped chomping the last sliver of truffle. She licked a few stray bits from the corner of her mouth. Who gets to benefit by his death? That, she decided, was the million-dollar question.
Two rum truffles had been devoured. She considered eating a third but resisted.
She told herself that if she focused on the subject matter, she wouldn’t feel the need to eat chocolate – or anything.
She set the last chocolate to one side and vowed not to have lunch.
By lunchtime, her stomach was rumbling in protest, but her head won the battle. Never mind what her stomach wanted. The murder of Clarence Scrimshaw was a very serious business.
Her attention was drawn back to the details she had scribbled down. The debit card was in the name of Clarence Scrimshaw and was issued against his bank account. All the details checked out. It was only to be expected. Clarence Scrimshaw wasn’t short of money, but he was extremely careful with his spending. So there was one big question in need of answering: why had he suddenly splashed out?
She jotted down a number of reasons. First among them was that he was dying from a terminal disease. Second that he’d had a visit from the Angel Gabriel advising him to stop being such a miserable old sod. Thirdly …
Honey didn’t get chance to write the third possibility down. A delectable smell that cost plenty per ounce made her look up. Her mother was smothered in winter white – or was it off white? – like whipped Jersey cream. The outfit was Aran, no doubt hand-knitted by some elderly islander with gnarled fingers and poor eyesight.
‘Hannah! Wipe your mouth.’
‘Rum truffle,’ said Honey opting for the singular and trying not to look guilty.
Her mother eyed her accusingly. ‘More than one, knowing you. Still. Under the circumstances … Now listen,’ she continued before Honey had chance to question her meaning. ‘These flyers about my dating website are for you to place in Reception. I’m sure there are plenty of people looking for love.’
‘They’re not staying here.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because …’
Honey couldn’t think of a single reason why she should be so sure about that.
‘Precisely. Take Mary Jane for a start. There she is, single at her age, and talking to ghosts. A man would do her the word of good, don’t you think?’
‘No. Mary Jane prefers ghosts.’
‘Give me one good reason why she would prefer a ghost to a red-blooded man.’
‘No socks to wash.’
Her mother tutted. ‘Here are the flyers.’ She plonked them down on the desk. ‘I need a few more men to include on my “Men Available Page”. Who do you have working here that might be interested?’
‘Nobody over forty-five.’
For one mad moment, Honey imagined Smudger dragged into this. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘How about Dumpy Doris?,’ she suggested.
A nervous tic began to pulse beneath Gloria ’s left eye. Dumpy Doris was built like a champion wrestler.
Honey guessed her mother was seeking something tactful to say.
‘She’s not photogenic.’
‘As good an excuse as any.’
‘You could become a partner in my business. At least it would take the weight off your feet. Think what you’d be buying.’
‘What would I be buying?’
‘A future. Now this is the score …’
Gloria took the grey suede folder she was carrying from beneath her arm. ‘As I’ve already told you, this all started back in the summer. A few of us got together and talked about men. Then Fred showed me how to operate a computer. I thought I should look into it more deeply so I enrolled into night classes. But Fred is far better at it than I am. Fred is top totty when it comes to computers.’
Honey wondered if Fred was also top totty in other departments, or whether her mother had compromised. After all, eligible men of seventy-plus were thin on the ground – largely due to the fact that they were mostly dead.
Her mother leaned across the reception desk, her voice dropping to a whisper.
‘Now listen, owning a hotel means being on your feet all day. With this business, you wouldn’t be doing that.’
‘No, I’d be sitting on my rear and it would get wider by the day.’
‘But you have to consider the future, Hannah. A woman of your age …’
‘My age!’
Honey flopped back so heavily in her swivel chair that it over-swivelled, and she fell backwards and was wedged against the wall.
Her mother rushed round and began fussing over her.
‘Oh, my word, Hannah. You really do have to take care of yourself. It’s not like when you were expecting Lindsey, you know.’
Honey felt a whole series of emotions wash in, out and over her. What was going on here?
‘You don’t have to marry Doherty, you know.’
‘I know I don’t. I might not.’
Her mother looked at her aghast. ‘It may be old-fashioned, but think of the shame!’
Honey frowned. ‘Beg your pardon?’
‘The baby,’ said her mother, pointing at Honey’s stomach.
‘Baby! What baby?’
Gloria Cross now looked affronted. ‘You mean I’m not going to be a grandmother again?’
‘No. Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?’
Her mother patted her chest as though she’d been about to faint.
‘My, my. Thank goodness for that. I had it in mind that we should get a well-heeled father to adopt the unborn, but seeing as there isn’t any …’
‘Of course there’s not!’
‘Oh well. Never mind. I’ll go and speak to my granddaughter, see what makes the younger generation tick. May be I can apply some of her modern wisdom to my blog – once I find out what one is. Is she around?’
‘No. She’s out with the professor.’
‘A new beau?’
‘Hardly.’ She said it through gritted teeth.
‘Good. Professors don’t rate too highly on the salary scale, and their dress sense is terrible.’
Honey covered her eyes with her hand. Her mother’s point of view was pretty predictable. In Gloria Cross’s estimation, men should be well-blessed with both cash and taste if they wanted to attract a woman. Charm made the list too. But even a Mafia godfather could be charming and have a great taste in clothes …
‘Mother, I’m a little busy …’
‘Did I say I wanted your help this very minute? We can talk again when you’re looking more presentable and don’t have smears of chocolate around your mouth. You’ve been eating a lot of chocolate of late. Are you sure you’re not expecting?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘Then that’s it. There’s no need to exclude you from my website. You’re not spoken for, and who knows what nice man might be out there for you.’
Honey turned away so that her mother wouldn’t see her roll her eyes. There had to be a better time for this. There were portions of pudding to control, wine glasses to be inspected, and the final presents to be wrapped. Roll on New Year.
A neon light flashed on in Honey’s brain. That was it.
‘How about we leave it for a week or so? New Year, new beginning! We’ll all be feeling in the mood for
making a new start. That should pep a little energy into your scheme.’
Honey’s tone was enthusiastic, though quite honestly she didn’t feel that way. She was putting off the dreadful moment and entertaining a faint hope. With a bit of luck her mother might find a more willing guinea pig between now and New Year. It was worth a try.
Judging from the flickering of her mother’s eyebrows – she avoided frowning in order to ward off wrinkles – she was giving the suggestion due consideration.
‘Well … I guess there’s some mileage in that. And I have put some stuff online already. I just need to pad it out, I think.’
There were times when miracles happened and surely the best time for them happening was Christmas. A miracle happened now. Mary Jane had finished drinking her hot chocolate in the residents’ lounge. Honey was pleased to see her crumpled, aged face, which vaguely resembled a ten-month-old crab apple. Her eyes were bright. A froth of chocolate clung to the peach fuzz on her upper lip.
‘Just checking that everything’s ready for my ghost story session,’ she said to Honey, then turned to Honey’s mother. ‘Hi, Gloria.’
Honey confirmed that everything was ready. ‘You’ve got a full house.’
Mary Jane clapped her hands. ‘Great.’
‘I wonder,’ said Honey following the flowering of an idea. ‘Do you still do readings – you know – astrology and tarot?’
Mary Jane’s face turned serious. ‘Free of charge to you, Honey. You’re good to me. I’ll be good to you.’
‘For my mother. She’s setting up a new business venture. Is it possible that you could advise her on an auspicious date for getting things going?’
Luck, miracles, and Michael and all his angels must have been on Honey’s side. The deal was done. Gloria and Mary Jane went off together, chattering excitedly, one outlining her scheme and the other assuring her that the heavens knew best.
Chapter Twenty-three
Doherty popped in around lunchtime. She’d arranged for the two of them to have lunch in the coach house.
‘Just leftovers,’ she said.
‘You, or the food?’
‘Ha bloody ha!’
The Ghost of Christmas Past: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 8) Page 15