Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘No. It’s a lunge whip, they’re only used for training horses. You’ll also be pleased to know that I’ve never heard of it being used to chase away nosy policemen!’

  ‘That is good to know.’

  Doherty approached holding his warrant card high.

  ‘Police,’ he called out. ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘I know,’ she called back. ‘My husband phoned to tell me you were coming.’

  As she gradually brought the glossy-rumped horse to a standstill, Honey observed the wife of Ferdinand the pirate. Mrs Olsen wasn’t at all what she’d expected. For a start she wore a black velvet Alice band holding back her pale blonde hair. From all that she’d read it was a well-known fact that pirates’ wives did not favour black velvet Alice bands. Ribbons woven into tumbling ringlets were more their style. The jodhpurs, padded jacket and checked shirt didn’t do the job either. A pirate’s wife would wear a big dress with a low-cut bodice displaying her shoulders and a heaving bosom. Deirdre Olsen looked like a farmer’s wife; though she might scrub up well – just like you do, Honey reminded herself.

  The horse came into the circle in response to Deirdre Olsen’s command of ‘Whoa.’

  ‘He’s a beautiful horse,’ remarked Honey, stroking the soft muzzle between the flared Arabic nostrils.

  ‘Obviously a stallion,’ said Doherty, as if he knew.

  ‘Not for much longer. He’s being gelded,’ she snapped, sounding almost as though she would be doing the job herself.

  Doherty winced. ‘Ouch!’

  Mrs Olsen threw him a wry grin. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Policeman. We only geld horses, not men – unless unduly provoked.’

  Honey kept her head. ‘He’s an Arab. Right?’

  ‘Right,’ said Mrs Olsen, eyeing Honey anew as though to ascertain her horsy credentials, in other words a wide behind and a devil-may-care attitude towards fashion. Seemingly liking what she saw, she opened up a little.

  ‘This is the second colt I’ve had from his mother. I have three fillies and one gelding – his half-brother in fact.’

  Mrs Olsen’s first response had been cool and she had an ice-cool voice. Her hairstyle was regrettable. Her face was devoid of make-up, her nose slightly red and her eyebrows straggly over pale blue eyes. Mrs Olsen had great cheekbones but had ceased taking care of herself. Perhaps Mr Olsen was no longer the love of her life and had been replaced by a love of horse flesh.

  Feeling he didn’t quite fit into this equine equation, Doherty stuck to the job in hand.

  ‘Were you with your husband between the hours of ten and midnight the night before last?’

  Mrs Olsen raised her straggly eyebrows. ‘My husband’s already told you that we were together.’

  ‘I know,’ said Doherty, showing no sign of impatience – yet. ‘I need you to confirm.’

  ‘Well, I wasn’t with him! I went to a concert at Bath Abbey and he cried off saying he had a cold. Cold my arse!’ She pronounced ‘arse’ as ‘ahrse’. The upper class never dropped their aitches, thought Honey, not even in the middle of a word.

  Mrs Olsen went on. ‘I ride horses and my husband rides fillies, though his have two legs and they’re usually wide open!’

  It wouldn’t be the first time that Doherty had dealt with a scorned woman whose husband was cheating on her. In his experience, getting even could become downright vicious.

  ‘Are you sure about that, Mrs Olsen? And I want the truth. Perjury can be punished with a prison sentence.’

  Mrs Olsen didn’t bat an eyelid, continuing to stroke her handsome young horse.

  ‘He phoned begging me to cover for him while promising that he wouldn’t see that old trollop any longer. But in my husband’s case I know that there will always be an old trollop – or a young one – whatever takes his fancy at the time. Well, I’m not going to cover for him. I was going to, but I’ve changed my mind. Anyway, as you have pointed out to me, perjury can lead to jail. Let him stew. He deserves it.’

  Now this was a turn-up. Sensing he was on to something here, Doherty persisted. ‘So who was he with?’

  The horse rubbed his head against Honey’s shoulder.

  ‘He likes you,’ said Mrs Olsen, her face wreathed in smiles. Without needing to ask, Honey knew that the Olsens did not have any children.

  Doherty gritted his teeth and asked the question again.

  Mrs Olsen almost spat the reply.

  ‘With Joybell Peters. She’s one of the hotel directors who sits on the project committee with him. Sits on a lot more besides if you ask me. Lies down a lot too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  Honey began feeling sorry for her. ‘No wonder you prefer horses.’

  Mrs Olsen turned suddenly prickly. ‘Yes! And preferably gelded. Now, if you don’t mind …’

  She didn’t wait to find out their feelings on gelding. Leading the horse by her side she headed for the stables.

  ‘Phew,’ said Doherty, sighing with relief. ‘That’s one sore lady.’

  Honey could have made some quip about Olsen getting his balls cut off at the same time as the horse, but something was troubling her.

  ‘Why did Olsen need her to cover for him? Surely he knew she wouldn’t. Why didn’t he send us direct to this Joybell person?’

  Doherty looked thoughtful. ‘Number one, he truly believed she’d cover for him. Number two … well … I don’t really know. I was going to say that he thought she would cover for him because she was in the dark about him having another woman. Obviously she wasn’t.’

  Honey had been thinking the same thought. ‘Something happened to change her mind, something he was unaware of when we were at his office. He might have phoned her to say we were coming. She might have got angry with him and told him she’d changed her mind of her own volition. She’s a pretty strong-minded woman.’

  Doherty swayed to and fro on his heels as he mulled it over. A light drizzle was beginning to fall. Honey stood throwing expectant looks between him and the hood of the sports car. At present it was folded back. The seats were beginning to collect a misty film of water.

  Seemingly unperturbed, Doherty slid into the driver’s seat.

  Honey remained standing.

  She folded her arms. ‘Well?’

  He stopped gazing at whatever he was looking at – nothing in particular. He blinked. ‘Are you getting in?’

  ‘How about putting the hood up, or don’t you mind ruining your upholstery?’

  His movements were sudden. He really hadn’t noticed the rain! How barmy was that?

  ‘Sorry. I wasn’t with it.’

  ‘So where were you?’

  He grinned. ‘With you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Somewhere special.’

  The chestnut yearling nickered gently to his stable mates as Deirdre Olsen led him into his box. The horses were kept in spacious stalls divided by wooden barriers topped with iron railings. There was a loft overhead where hay and straw was kept. The wooden flooring was warped with age. Any movement overhead brought down a flurry of straw and dust. It fell now in front of her face. She backed out of the stall and looked upwards.

  ‘Gilbert! I know you’re up there. You know you shouldn’t smoke anywhere near where hay and straw are stored. Come down. Now!’

  The falling debris continued: bits of straw, bits of grain and plenty of dust. Footsteps sounded from those areas of the hayloft that were not covered with loose straw.

  Deirdre moved slowly along to the ladder, the only access besides the overhead door where straw was taken in for storing.

  She stopped dead when a booted foot appeared. The boots were tan and of the sort used by hikers. They had thick soles and metal holders around which the laces would be wrapped.

  His jeans were baggy. A black and white flecked sweater showed from beneath the waxed jacket he wore and his chin was thick with grey stubble that matched his eyebrows. He had a rugged, rough look about him. Some might look at him and think him the salt of the ear
th. He was that all right. He was rough, he was rugged, and he didn’t give a damn about anything except getting by from one day to the next.

  The tip of his cigarette glowed as he drew on it. His smile was fleeting. ‘That was lucky.’

  A cloud of smoke drifted in Deirdre’s direction. She made no comment.

  ‘I think you’d better lie low for a while.’

  He looked at her in disbelief and chanced a swift laugh ‘You’re joking. I need the money. I’ve got a life to lead you know.’

  She raised her eyes without raising her head. For a brief moment the man’s expression turned plaintive. It was such a thoughtful, conniving kind of look.

  ‘You can’t go back there. Not yet. The police are nosing around.’

  ‘But I need the money …’

  The flat of her hand landed on his cheek with a resounding thwack! He stepped back.

  ‘There was no bloody need for that!’

  Face contorted with anger, she held a warning finger in front of his face. ‘You will do as I say. You will not go back there until the coast is clear. Do you understand?’

  He continued to rub the side of his face. A small spot of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Do you understand?’ She glared at him more fiercely, the tip of her finger only inches from the tip of his nose.

  He took his time responding, but at last he nodded, though the mocking smile stayed in place. Humour the old cow. After all, he wouldn’t lose by it. He had another fish to fry in order to keep the wolf from the door. But he wouldn’t tell her that; just in case the stupid old bag wanted a cut of the action. No one was going to have a cut of this particular baby. Nobody, nobody at all.

  Chapter Six

  This was to have been a night of wine and roses and perhaps a nice juicy steak with all the trimmings. Before enjoying the fruits of their labours that evening, Honey and Steve Doherty had agreed to visit Joybell Peters in the afternoon and ask where she was on the night of the murder. Unfortunately things did not turn out as planned.

  Doherty had only just picked her up from the hairdresser’s when Lindsey rang to say that there was a problem. The chandeliers and French mirrors had arrived courtesy of an antique dealer named Fred Cook. ‘That’s not all,’ Lindsey added. ‘Some of the seniors want to stay on.’

  This was better news. They’d already insisted on extending their one night stay to three and now they wanted more. What a turn-up! Honey almost skipped with joy.

  ‘They prefer a three-star to a four-star? Well, that’s a result.’

  ‘Don’t get carried away thinking this is all good news,’ said Lindsey. ‘Herr Hoffner got bored. He’s painting reception. I’m afraid he’s upset the workmen.’

  Honey groaned. Doherty dropped her and drove off to interview Joybell Peters with a promise that he’d see her later.

  As she swung into reception, the smell of paint and the sound of arguing came out to greet her.

  Lindsey came steaming forward. ‘They’re not happy,’ she said, indicating the two men in paint-splashed overalls. One of them came marching over purposefully, his bottom lip quivering.

  ‘Do you see what he’s done? Do you see what he’s done?’

  On repeating the same thing a second time, his voice went an octave higher.

  Honey looked. It seemed that Herr Hoffner had been very busy indeed. He’d finished what they’d left unfinished and was steaming into a second coat.

  He saw her and without breaking stride called out, ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Driver. I will have this finished very quickly indeed!’

  The two professional painters and decorators were not impressed.

  ‘He’s stealing the bread from our mouths! The bread from our mouths,’ said the painter with the habit of repeating himself, the pitch of his voice worryingly close to becoming full soprano.

  ‘It is all a fuss about nothing.’

  The speaker was Frau Hoffner. Until now she had made herself comfortable in the corner of a coffee-coloured sofa that had just arrived and was still covered in polythene. While her husband busied himself painting, Frau Hoffner knitted. On seeing Honey she got up, smiled and came tripping over.

  ‘We have decided to stay on, Mrs Driver. The others are moving into a very smart hotel at our next stop – Stratford-upon-Avon I think. But my husband does not care much for Shakespeare and he also gets very bored when we go on holiday. He likes to be busy you see. It took me two years to persuade him to come on this trip. Men,’ she finally exclaimed, and although she pretended to be critical of her spouse, it was obvious she absolutely adored him.

  Honey thanked Frau Hoffner for her explanation while Herr Hoffner whizzed on with the paint roller.

  The painter, whose name she’d recently found out was Warren, wasn’t impressed, judging by the pink cheeks and glassy-eyed stare.

  ‘Now look here, Mrs Driver …’

  ‘He doesn’t want paying,’ Frau Hoffner added suddenly, fixing Warren with a sniffy lifting of her nose. ‘So do not think that, my good man.’

  There were many occasions in the everyday running of a hotel when tact and mediation came to the fore; sometimes between guests, sometimes between staff – most especially when the chef was about to brain the kitchen porter with a frying pan.

  Herr Hoffner was something of a first. Honey had never had to accommodate a paying guest who didn’t want to relax. So who was she to argue? The customer was always right. The next task was to placate the painter.

  ‘Look at it this way, Warren,’ said Honey. ‘Herr Hoffner is bored. He doesn’t want paying. Couldn’t you let him help out? I’m the one paying and desperate to have the job done as quickly as possible. I’ve got no objection to him helping out. In fact the sooner it’s finished the better.’

  Warren seemed to consider this, one eyebrow drawn so deep that his hairy brows were in danger of blinding him. ‘And we’ll still get the same amount of money even if we finish early?’

  It was a tough deal, but who was she to argue? ‘Exactly. Call it a sort of bonus.’

  While he went off to chew it over with his workmate, Honey headed towards Fred Cook. She’d seen him out of the corner of her eye, standing with his arms crossed and an amused smile on his face. Having the advantage of great height he could see over everything to what was going on. His hearing too was probably better than anyone else’s, seeing as he was so tall, as thin as a lamp post, round-faced, as bald as a coot, and sporting a thick moustache that jiggled up and down with his upper lip. She was of the opinion that that was how yodelling in Switzerland had caught on; if you were high enough you could be heard for miles.

  ‘You’ve got my chandeliers?’ she asked breezily, looking around him at the large square boxes.

  ‘I have. I got them from France. And the mirrors.’

  His amused smirk had all but disappeared. ‘It’s the two oil paintings I haven’t got.’

  Honey was disappointed. The two paintings were of genteel eighteenth-century ladies with pale skin and rounded breasts peeping above plunging necklines. She’d been a bit dubious about them at first but Philippe had assured her that they would look quite wonderful in her blue and white reception area.

  ‘So French. So typical of their century.’

  She’d accepted his advice though she wasn’t totally sure they would suit her clientele, most of whom were middle-aged and American, with a smattering of Europeans and Japanese. But there, she’d been persuaded to adopt this French look and at quite a pretty price. She’d assured him she could get something to suit at auction. He’d persuaded her otherwise.

  ‘Not like these. They’ll be an investment. Mark my words. I have a contact, a specialist in his field.’

  So she’d marked his words and studied photographs of the two works of art he was attempting to sell her. The paintings, although no more than sixteen inches in length and destined to hang one above the other, had cost her a small fortune – or a large fortune by her standards. The money had come from t
he sale of some marine memorabilia her husband had left behind when he’d left on his last sailing adventure. He’d sunk into the Atlantic and she’d been left everything. Most of the money had been sunk into the hotel. She’d forgotten about the bits and pieces relating to the boat. In all it had come to ten thousand pounds. Buying a couple of oil paintings – which Carl would have considered a ridiculous extravagance – had given her great satisfaction. After all, he’d never considered his sailing yacht an extravagance, so hey ho to it all!

  Now there was a problem. Fred Cook looked very doubtful indeed.

  ‘Monsieur Philippe’s store room is empty.’

  Honey thought about it. It made sense that Philippe would have some kind of store room where he kept decorative items for use on specific jobs. Once the decorators had moved out, that was when he moved in to oversee the laying of carpets, the hanging of curtains and the embellishment of the whole work with paintings, antiques and carefully chosen pieces of furniture.

  She pointed to the packing cases. ‘But you have my chandeliers and my mirrors.’

  ‘Yes, love. Monsieur Philippe delivered them before the … um … happening …’

  ‘Before he got choked with a lavatory chain handle.’

  ‘Is that what happened? Good grief. Anyway, he told me he was awaiting delivery of the paintings.’

  Honey was puzzled. ‘He told me they were already delivered.’

  Fred Cook shrugged his angular shoulders. ‘We won’t ever know, will we, love. There’s nothing in his store room now, that’s for sure.’

  Chapter Seven

  Having been party to everything going on, it fell to Lindsey to impart consolation.

  Honey sat behind the messy reception desk, her head in her hands. Nothing seemed to be going right.

  ‘This could only happen to me!’

  ‘Let’s have a day out.’

  Honey did not want a day out and said so. She spread her arms, indicating the confusion that was the Green River reception area. ‘Look at this place! It’s a mess!’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be overcome with a bit of tidying up.’

  ‘Without my paintings,’ Honey whined, her face screwed up with the easy elasticity of a Cabbage Patch Doll. ‘I can’t possibly leave everything and go gadding about. I can’t concentrate on anything except if it’s connected with this place.’