Once he was finished, she followed him to the door.
‘Is a policeman ever off duty?’ she breathed as he paused in the act of opening the door. Her chin was almost resting on his shoulder. She was standing close. Too close.
‘Of course.’
‘Perhaps we could meet up when you’re free.’
He regarded her for a moment before shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible. You’re a witness, Mrs Peters. You might even be more than that.’
She jerked her chin back in surprise. ‘Pardon?’
‘Everyone’s a suspect until the case is solved.’
He left her looking stunned. Somehow it pleased him.
Once outside he studied the names on the list of other people besides the main three responsible for managing the refurbishment of St Margaret’s Court Hotel. The builder contracted to do the job was a big firm that had a long association with Bath and historic buildings in particular: Paul Paling and Sons Ltd. Making an instant decision, he headed in that direction.
Honey’s call came just as he’d reached the rather plain building that served as the company’s headquarters at the bottom of town close to the river. She told him about the missing paintings and the empty store room.
He pulled a face as he thought about it, bottom lip out, eyes piercing the toes of his shoes. ‘Could he have moved the stuff somewhere else, somewhere Fred doesn’t know about?’
Honey was climbing the walls. Losing ten thousand pounds had a very detrimental effect. ‘No way! Philippe trusted Fred. He would have told him. Philippe’s stock has been stolen, I tell you, and my paintings with it.’
Doherty didn’t need to be told that Honey was frantic.
‘Now calm down. They were only paintings.’
‘Ten grand’s worth of paintings.’
‘Shit!’
‘I know the money came from selling off some of Carl’s old junk, but that’s not the point. I need them to finish off the Louis Quatorze look.’
‘Can’t Louis Quatorze sell you something else to suit?’ Although Doherty liked old places, he didn’t know much about British history and hadn’t a clue about French.
At the other end of the phone, Honey’s expression was pained and her tone snarly. ‘It’s not a high street chain store! Louis Quatorze – King Louis the Fourteenth – of France. It’s a specific look based on the period of his reign.’
‘Sorry. Look. Leave it with me. I’ll get a team round there. In the meantime, if you could ask around …’
She said that she would.
‘I’ll be with you as soon as I can.’
‘I would appreciate that.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll think of a way you can show your appreciation.’
On the plus side the refurbishment of the reception area was going well, thanks to the intervention of a German tourist who didn’t know the meaning of relaxation.
Due to Herr Hoffner the Green River Hotel was a hive of activity, though at present there was something of a lull. The German was sharing sandwiches with the workmen. His wife was nowhere to be seen, though her knitting was bundled into the corner of the polythene-covered sofa.
Honey admired the brightening walls. The second coat had been applied and was drying nicely. Now Herr Hoffner and his team were undercoating the woodwork. The kindly and hard-working gentleman appeared to have taken over supervision of the project and the decorators didn’t seem to mind. Their pace was slower than his, and he didn’t seem to mind that.
After the problem with the paintings, the area was a little oasis of calm. Her blood pressure steadied. That was until Mary Jane came down the stairs.
Wearing a wrinkly, worried expression, the tall, gaunt American stopped halfway down, leaned over the banister, and beckoned her over with a loud hiss.
Honey tried not to frown. Frowning caused wrinkles. Deep inside she felt stirrings of apprehension. Problems usually came trotting along behind when Mary Jane wore that expression and hissed like that. Winding her way between paint pots and over dust sheets, she found herself looking up into Mary Jane’s very blue and very worried eyes.
‘We have a problem,’ said Mary Jane. ‘I think I’ve done something I shouldn’t have done.’
Honey’s apprehension grew from the size of a golf ball to that of a beach ball.
Just for once there was no twinkle in Mary Jane’s eyes. This was worrying. And she’d interlocked ‘we’ and ‘I’ in the same statement. This was especially worrying.
‘What?’
Honey considered the possibilities. Frau Hoffner was not around. Was she in Mary Jane’s room threatening to teach her how to knit? Mary Jane wasn’t the knitting kind. Neither was Honey for that matter. Drop one, stitch one never happened with her knitting. She tended to drop everything and end up with a knitted scarf that could loosely be termed ‘perforated’ and might be suitable for catching fish in the North Sea.
As Mary Jane was in secretive mode, voice barely above a whisper, Honey leaned closer so she could hear better.
‘What appears to be the problem?’
Mary Jane’s words tumbled out machine-gun-style. ‘It’s Gerda. The German lady. She’s gone into a trance. I was only doing a demonstration. She was quite keen, but circumstances occurred and caused a problem. Help! What do we do? Help!’
Visions of being sued for allowing such an occurrence gave speed to Honey’s feet. She almost vaulted over the banister but settled for a more conservative dash up the stairs.
Frau Gerda Hoffner was sitting in an antique armchair, her eyes vacantly staring at the corner cupboard. Her hands were resting on the chair arms.
Honey bent down in front of her, waving her hands across Frau Hoffner’s eyes just like she’d seen done in films.
Frau Hoffner didn’t even blink.
As a cold sinking feeling dropped from her throat to her knees, Honey looked at Mary Jane. ‘You got her into it. You must know how to snap her out again.’
Mary Jane hunched her shoulders and spread her hands. Her expression was of total confusion, if not helplessness. ‘How can I? I didn’t mean to get her into something this deep in the first place! She just turned out to be more susceptible than I thought.’
Honey rolled her eyes and briefly thought about hiding in the dry goods store, adjacent to the jar of glacé cherries and the sweet little Virginia amaretti biscuits they served with coffee. There should be enough amaretti to keep her going until Frau Hoffner came out of her trance. Or the men in white coats came – perhaps for her.
The fates were responsible for an act of gross unfairness. There was Herr Hoffner doing his bit for European working relations by assisting decorators who hadn’t initially wanted his assistance, and doing it pretty well by the look of things. Sending his wife into an out of body experience was no way to repay him.
Drastic situations called for drastic measures. But what? ‘You have to do something.’
Mary Jane’s eyes were bulging. ‘What?’
Honey shrugged helplessly. ‘I don’t know. Isn’t there some procedure to get people out of trances? You know, like some words that have to be spoken or potion to be drunk.’
‘I do beg your pardon!’ Mary Jane looked quite insulted. ‘I am a professor of the paranormal, not a witch. My name’s Mary Jane not Morgana le Fay!’
Honey just remembered who Morgana le Fay was before opening her mouth to ask and putting her foot in it. Mary Jane got very touchy about anything to do with King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. She’d regressed there at some time. Honey had made the mistake of asking her if she’d been a serving wench. She’d snapped back that she’d been no such thing. ‘I wasn’t a servant! I was glorious. I was handsome and tall in the saddle. I, my dear Honey, was Sir Lancelot!’
Visualizing a very tall Californian woman of senior years at one time being the lover of Queen Guinevere and sword fighting with the best of them was pretty hard going. So was equating Mary Jane with Lancelot, causing havoc with
his lust and everything else besides. It had proved difficult and she certainly didn’t want to go there today.
Frau Hoffner had not moved from the chair. She hadn’t blinked either. A sudden terrible thought struck her.
She bent down again and stared into the woman’s face. ‘She’s not dead, is she?’
Mary Jane leaned down on the other side of her, looked, and shook her head. ‘No. I can see the breath from her nostrils disturbing her moustache.’
It was true. With each breath the fine hairs on Frau Hoffner’s upper lip fluttered slightly.
Now what?
‘Sometimes a big shock can jolt them out of things like this,’ offered Mary Jane. ‘Sometimes it’s just the presence of somebody who happens to be their opposite in terms of soul and body.’
‘And that sort of person is?’
Mary Jane shrugged. ‘Search me. We won’t know until it happens.’
‘But that could take for ever! And what if her opposite never turns up? What then?’
Being sued for millions now seemed a very distinct possibility. Panic set in big time. She fought to regain control. Thinking straight was what was needed. Logical thinking, the first rule of which was: retrace your steps and see where you may have gone wrong.
‘But how did this happen in the first place?’
‘I introduced her to Sir Cedric. She shook his hand.’
This was getting crazy. Sir Cedric was a ghost and Honey didn’t believe in ghosts. Not really. Only sometimes when she didn’t want to upset Mary Jane’s feelings.
‘Right. Now think back. How did you get her into this in the first place? Is there a possibility that you can reverse the steps you took and get her back to normal?’
Mary Jane heaved a huge sigh, her bony shoulders seeming to sag under the weight of it.
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good.’
The fight or flight thing slapped away inside her head. She didn’t term it running away and playing at being an ostrich. There was nothing she could do. Mary Jane had got Gerda Hoffner into this situation; only Mary Jane could get her out. Her own presence was superfluous. She told herself she’d made an executive decision.
‘I’m going out.’
She headed for the door.
Mary Jane pointed out the obvious. ‘There’s no point calling for a doctor.’
Keen to avoid a situation she neither understood nor had a clue how to remedy, Honey was taking the coward’s way out.
‘I’ve got some important things to deal with regarding the murder of Philippe Fabiere.’ She didn’t add that she might also check her Public Liability policy. Hopefully the premiums were all paid up.
Heading for the door, she couldn’t help rolling her eyes to heaven. ‘I’ll leave Frau Hoffner in your capable hands,’ she added, hand tightly wound around the door handle.
Honey skedaddled. She knew nothing about trances and out of body experiences and all the other stuff Mary Jane believed in so fervently. What’s more, she didn’t want to know.
On checking her public liability policy, the insurance proved to be valid and the premiums were up to date. It was some comfort.
She couldn’t stay in the hotel while this was going on. Anything that went wrong she could usually deal with, but Frau Hoffner in a trance was not such a thing. She was running away as from a nightmare, simply because she felt powerless to deal with it.
Grabbing a Jaeger velvet jacket with braided trim, she tore through reception and hit the street running – or at least walking very quickly. It was hardly her favourite jacket; her mother had bought it for her.
The day was bright and breezy, so she was glad of the coat. The air had a bite and a smell to it. The bite was a remnant of winter. The smell was of new buds breaking out into a mild spring.
By the time she’d got to the auction house her footsteps were not quite so speedy. The problems of the Green River Hotel were behind her, though their after-effects were never really further than a few steps behind. The questions were like noisy butterflies fluttering around her head.
The problem with Frau Hoffner didn’t seem quite so serious. Perhaps it had something to do with the amount of oxygen she was breathing in. She kept telling herself that Mary Jane would sort it out. Hopefully.
Thinking of more weighty matters should help her get things in perspective. Number one question was: who would want to kill Philippe Fabiere? A rival, came the resounding answer, and according to Camilla Boylan Philippe had had quite a few. Who was his greatest rival?
‘Julia Porter,’ she muttered. Julia had given her a quote for the reception area in competition with Philippe. Julia had come across as rather domineering, intent on impressing her particular style without regard for the client’s point of view.
What else did she know about her? Not enough, she decided. She took out her phone and dialled someone who did.
Casper answered.
‘What do you know about Julia Porter?’
‘Do you want me to dish the dirt or merely give you a potted biography?’
‘Start with the biography. We’ll see where we go from there.’
Casper related what he knew.
Julia came from a wealthy background – very wealthy, her father being a baronet and her mother an ex-showgirl with long legs and a history of showing much more than that on the stage of the Moulin Rouge in Paris.
Julia was what those of her social class would call a fine-looking filly: blonde, blue eyes and immaculately turned out. She’d also had the benefit of a private education and although some strings had been pulled to facilitate a place at a top university, she had opted to start her own business.
Easy peasy. Daddy provided the money. She’d gone into interior design. She wasn’t bad at it and for a time got all the plum jobs in Bath – until Philippe came on the scene. She’d hated him on sight, though she smiled with her teeth. But you could see it in her eyes. Honey mentally ticked her name.
‘That’s the basic biography,’ said Casper.
‘And the dirt?’
‘Ah! She’s been around the block with a few brickies, bankers, and polo players. Not married. Not even engaged. I did hear that she was having an affair with the Russian who bought St Margaret’s Court.’
‘A serious affair?’
Casper hummed and hahed. ‘Depends what you mean, my dear girl. Let us settle for calling it a career relationship.’
‘She was after the interior design contract.’
‘Correct.’
She thanked him. What he’d told her was certainly food for thought.
Members of the hotel staff were also a possibility. Then there were the other people on the project management committee who were not part of the prime three, the interior designer, the architect and the accountant. And what about Camilla? She was definitely a suspect. She stood to inherit everything he’d left, including the store room full of antiques – which weren’t there any more. So that in turn could mean that it might have been someone coveting his hoard of valuables, in which case …
‘Here!’
She blinked as a cup of hot tea was placed in front of her.
‘I’ve even brought out one of my finest china cups. There’s only three left of a set of twelve. They’re the office specials. You look as though you could do with a cup of hot tea, hen.’
Her mind came back from its flights of fact-based fantasy. She was standing at the counter in the reception area of Bath’s premier auction house. Now, how the devil had she arrived here?
‘How did I get here?’
‘You walked, hen.’
She frowned. ‘I was doing a lot of thinking.’
‘Thinking too much causes wrinkles. I’ve also heard it said that if you’re having worried thoughts your mind will take charge and guide your steps to a place where you feel comfortable. So here you are!’
Alistair, a red-haired mountain of a man, was eyeing her from behind the counter. It was he that had plonked the tea in front o
f her; in a Royal Worcester cup with mismatched saucer no less.
‘Do I really look as though I’ve taken leave of my senses?’ she asked, trying for a glimpse of her reflection in the glass-fronted cabinets behind him.
He made a disapproving clicking sound. ‘Would I have got out my best china if you didn’t?’
She shook her head woefully and took a sip. A thought suddenly hit her. Alistair had his ear to the ground in the antiques trade. He was as good as anywhere to start in the pursuit of Philippe’s killer and her bare-bosomed ladies.
Folding his arms on the counter, he eyed her speculatively. ‘Well, come on then, hen. Spill out whatever you’re holding in. Ask me what you want to ask me.’
She raised her eyes. Alistair had a huge red beard, so it was difficult to know whether he had a mouth in there at all – it was that well hidden. She was sure he was grinning.
She took another sip of tea. It warmed her as well as loosening her tongue.
‘You know that Philippe Fabiere was killed.’
‘Aye,’ he said, one hand rising to stroke his beard. ‘I did hear the news. What a way to go.’ He tutted as though Philippe had been careless to die like that.
‘Fred tells me his store has been cleared out.’
‘As in tidied up or stolen?’
‘The latter, I’m afraid.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s very unfortunate.’
‘We could be jumping to conclusions. Perhaps he’d merely cleared it out and not told Camilla. Do you know whether he had another store somewhere?’
‘One he’d want to keep secret from the bonny wee girl?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t believe he did, but you never can tell. Interior designers are different to dealers. They’re not secretive about what they’ve bought and how much profit they’re likely to make. The items are only pieces of a whole, the icing on the cake of a project. Blokes like Philippe are very artistic. They count the aesthetic value of an item above money – on the whole, that is – generally speaking.’
He seemed suddenly to have second thoughts. ‘Of course, I could be wrong.’
She told him about the paintings she’d bought. ‘All I’ve got left are the photographs he showed me.’
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 6