Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Eventually it came out. ‘They cut my wires! That’s what they did. For the second time, they’ve cut my wires.’

  There were indrawn breaths followed by the silence of confusion.

  Gloria Cross asked for more detail. ‘What wires did they cut and why?’

  ‘They cut the wires to my security cameras. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been due for a service. I phoned the company that maintains them immediately I noticed that something was wrong. I’m not terribly technical, you know – not on electronics anyway. But the culprits were caught in the act. The engineer told me so and showed me the film. I’d already had them reconnect me once.’

  There were gasps of indignation from the other ladies.

  ‘That is totally out of order,’ said Honey from the other side of the curtain.

  ‘You see? I told you Hannah would be interested. She’ll be out shortly. I knew those trousers she was trying on wouldn’t fit her. I think someone should have a word with them,’ Gloria went on. ‘Someone who has official backing. Perhaps the police, or at least someone connected with the police. That’s where my daughter comes in.’

  ‘Hannah!’ The curtain swished as it was pulled back. ‘You’ve got to help Cybil.’

  Luckily her mother had caught her in the act of doing up the button on her waistband. Not that the ladies present would have worried about that. They were absorbed in the story of Cybil Camper-Young and her brush with the foreign devils, twittering among themselves with various suggestions on how to deal with the problem.

  Her mother glanced at the trousers lying crumpled on the floor. ‘Those are designer, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ Honey replied grumpily.

  ‘Then treat them with some respect.’

  Indignation pouted her apricot lips as she snatched them from her daughter’s hands. The solution to the crisis was delayed momentarily while her painted fingernails smoothed each leg out before fixing the trousers back on their hanger. ‘I take it you don’t want them.’

  ‘They don’t quite fit.’

  ‘I could have told you that.’

  Honey was taken aback and it showed on her face. ‘You make it sound as though I dine on doughnuts.’

  ‘You could be a little more discerning in what you eat.’

  Counting to ten in order to refrain from exploding was something Honey had learned to do well. Her mother would never have cut the mustard as a diplomat. ‘Opinionated’ might be the kindest description, ‘downright tactless’ otherwise.

  ‘How are you, Miss Camper-Young?’ asked Honey once her temper was under control. ‘Or rather, what can I do for you?’

  Beaming more brightly than the faded roses that covered her dress, Miss Camper-Young repeated the same story Honey had heard from behind the curtain.

  ‘The Russians cut the wires to my security cameras.’

  ‘And they work for the owners of the hotel opposite you?’

  Miss Camper-Young nodded while taking a genteel sip from her rose-patterned tea cup. The cup and matching saucer matched her dress. Perhaps that was why she visited the shop so much.

  ‘They do indeed. A Russian owns the hotel.’ Her bottom lip curled out as though she thought the whole race should be abolished. ‘Soviets.’

  She went on to say that besides turning the Grade I listed building into a fabulous hotel, the previous owners had been antique dealers on the grand scale, dealing in architectural stonework and things from antiquity.

  ‘They’ve retired to the Cayman Islands,’ her mother informed her.

  Honey raised her eyebrows. ‘I didn’t know that. How come you knew?’

  A secretive smile came to her mother’s beautifully made-up face, coupled with an undeniable sparkle in her eyes.

  ‘Evan Meredith has invited me to enjoy some sun, sea, and something else when I get the chance.’

  ‘I thought he had a wife,’ said Honey, feeling somewhat shocked and surprised. Her mother loved men, but had old-fashioned principles: those whom God had joined together and all that.

  ‘She likes to see him enjoy himself,’ said Gloria. ‘It gives her time alone to do the things she wants to do. We’re all getting older, you know.’

  Honey refrained from asking exactly what Evan’s wife – whose name she recalled was Primrose – did in the time she allotted to herself. This was no time to ask such a question. Her attention returned to Cybil.

  ‘Why do you think they cut the wiring to your security cameras?’

  ‘My man who comes in to garden on Wednesday afternoons went over and asked them why. They said they believed I was spying on them!’

  Honey’s mother exploded with indignation. ‘Imagine that! As if Cybil would be interested in what foreign people were doing!’

  There was something about Cybil’s face that made Honey think she took a lot more interest in what her neighbours did than she let on.

  ‘I just like to keep an eye on things,’ said Cybil.

  Honey nodded. ‘I see.’ She certainly did. If Cybil was observant enough to read her thoughts, then that old saying might very well be true – practice makes perfect!

  ‘So you’d like me to have a word with them?’

  Miss Camper-Young smiled appreciatively. ‘I’m quite capable of confronting them myself.’

  There was something about her facial expression that was almost contrived, as though she’d been trained to smile in the days when debutantes were still introduced at court and taught how to curtsey.

  ‘How about these?’ said her mother suddenly.

  She was holding up a pair of good quality burgundy-coloured trousers for Honey’s inspection.

  ‘There’s plenty of room in these, especially if you intend spreading some more as you get older.’ To her gathering of friends she added, ‘Hannah’s a little bigger than I ever was.’

  It was in moments like these, when her mother performed without the brakes on, that Honey wanted to murder her. Perhaps that was why she so relished this amateur sleuthing business. She couldn’t bring her mother to justice. Pursuing the dire and deadly was a satisfying alternative.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ferdinand Olsen hated living with his wife. Likewise she hated living with him. They had separate lives and separate bedrooms. They rarely dined together and only attended the same social events when it was absolutely necessary to the maintenance of the income from his architectural practice, which was quite substantial. For the rest of the time Ferdinand dined out and stayed in luxury hotels with attractive women. Deirdre immersed herself in anything to do with horses. By the time this state of affairs had set in, younger couples would have parted – amicably or otherwise. Ferdinand and Deirdre had spent years together; cohabitation had become a habit. Sex had flown out of the window sometime after Deirdre had bought her third horse.

  Ferdinand left the office early in order to catch Deirdre before she went into the stables to bed the horses down for the night. He didn’t want to go in there if he could possibly help it. He hated the smell and harboured the fear that one of the beasts might stretch its muscular neck and take a nip of his arm. It wouldn’t be the first time. He hated horses and they hated him; a bit like Deirdre and him really. The other problem was that he didn’t want to get his tan Gucci shoes eyelet-high in manure. Even when the concrete floor had received one of its twice-daily scrub-downs, his feet usually still managed to find enough muck to stick to his soles and stain the hem of his trousers.

  Keen not to chip the paintwork, he brought the BMW to a gentle standstill in front of the house. As with his car he liked to see the house pristine, the gravel bright yellow, the grass borders and shrubs trimmed and blooming to the best of their ability. It was true to say the front of the house reflected his personality; the back was Deirdre’s domain. His expression soured at the thought of it – dogs, cats and horses. Deirdre had been a typical English rose when he’d met her. He hadn’t realized back then that English women become keener on animals and ditch their interest in
men as they grow older. He wished he’d known sooner. He’d never have married her. But at least they could talk. That was something at least.

  His feet crunched on the gravel as he made his way through the side gate and along the path running at the side of the house. A Welsh springer spaniel came bounding out to greet him, tail wagging, tongue lolling around its dribble-soaked jaw.

  ‘Piss off!’

  Ferdinand aimed a kick. The dog squealed and retreated.

  To his amazement the sounds the injured mutt was making did not attract Deirdre’s attention. So! She wasn’t in the vicinity of the house.

  He carried on round to the neglected rear garden and the tree-trunk fence beyond, through the vegetable garden and into the stable yard.

  The stalls ran in a line along one side. A wide concrete walkway ran in front allowing easy access for cleaning and getting the animals in and out.

  Brushes leaned against the wall to his left. The horses were stabled to his right. A hosepipe lay on the ground spewing water.

  Ferdinand swore. He hated waste.

  ‘Deirdre?’

  The horses made soft nickering noises, except for a big bay named Lord John. His stall was at the very end of the rank. Ferdinand frowned, his dark eyes trying to discern if the animal was securely shut in before heading in that direction.

  On the way here he had questioned why it was still to her that he came to air his fears and his failings. The answer was, of course, that his other women were merely that – women. They were good for sex but not to talk to. Women gossiped. Deirdre did not. She merely formed opinions. Most of the time her opinions were pretty sound. He wanted to tell her about Sarkov, how frightening this all was and how he wished he’d never met the man. She’d call him a fool and accuse him of being paranoid. But at least she’d listen when he told her that if he jumped ship his life could be in danger. And if his life was in danger, it might also come to pass that hers was too.

  ‘Deirdre?’ His mouth was dry. He didn’t know why he suddenly thought about slasher movies, but he did. Fearsome Freddie was going to jump out on him if he went much closer. He told himself not to be stupid, though not all his fear was so easily conquered. At best Lord John might take a nip at his arm.

  ‘Steady on, boy,’ he said as soothingly as he could.

  The big bay fixed him with a menacing eye. At the same time it blew noisily down its nostrils, backed away, spun in its stall and came charging back to the gate.

  Luckily the stable gate was strong and made of galvanized steel. It shook on its hinges but didn’t give.

  He tried soft talking again.

  ‘Whoa, boy. Go steady there.’

  The horse didn’t seem impressed. It rolled its eyes, one hoof pawing at the ground.

  ‘You swine,’ he muttered, eyeing the bad-tempered beast ruefully.

  Deirdre had accused him of having a harsh voice. He’d told her he’d never had any complaints. She’d reminded him that this was a horse he was talking to and it was sensitive, not like the cheap slappers into whose ears he breathed terms of endearment – or sheer lust.

  Various horsy things hung from hooks on the wall behind him – halters, lead reins and lunging whips. He took one of the latter, folded the fine leather tip into his palm along with the handle and pointed it at the horse.

  ‘Now, you beast! Get back when I tell you!’

  The horse snorted and half-reared as it backed into the stall.

  ‘That’s better …’

  His feeling of power was short-lived. The horse’s rear hooves disturbed what at first looked like a bundled-up horse blanket at the back of the stall. One of the creature’s hooves caught in it, dragging it forward. The more it dragged, the more flighty it became, snorting and lashing out with its back legs in order to disentangle itself.

  Ferdinand lashed out. ‘You stupid creature!’

  The horse reared and came crashing down on the gate, its front legs over, its back legs still entangled.

  That was when Ferdinand saw the pale blonde hair and the Alice band. He had no chance to scream. The horse’s flailing hooves came down on his head. He lost consciousness, not feeling the kicks that continued until the animal had freed itself and run out into the paddock.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Although her mother’s friend Cybil had declined her offer to deal with the matter of the wires to her security cameras being cut, Honey figured it a useful excuse to ask questions regarding the murder of Philippe Fabiere.

  On arrival, St Margaret’s Court Hotel had taken on the appearance of a building site. There were workmen everywhere: stonemasons, glaziers, and men in yellow coats and matching yellow hats. For the most part the latter were carrying rolled-up drawings beneath their arms, pointing and gesticulating as they discussed the ongoing work.

  Gardeners were working in the areas outside the hotel where scaffolding hadn’t been erected. Honey wished them a good morning. They nodded in response, their eyes warily regarding her from beneath frowning brows. Their busy hands never paused and although nobody stopped her from treading around lumps of stone and piles of sand and cement, she got the impression her presence was tolerated rather than welcomed.

  Still, the old place refused to be made less grand by all this activity. Its façade oozed history, one of those places that, if it could speak, would have an extraordinary story to tell.

  Wish it were mine, she thought, sighing enviously as she entered the magnificent portico. Huge oak doors, weathered by the centuries, framed the arched entrance. At least no modernist designer had suggested painting these magnolia or off-white – yet!

  The interior of the hotel was visible and warmly welcoming on the far side of the inner doors. Amber lighting gleamed, seeming to swim over the polished plate glass.

  The change inside only served to unsettle her further. She recalled the skeleton crew manning reception under dire circumstances. They were a typical team, each keen to assist no matter how awkward the customer. The police, Doherty in particular, didn’t come much more awkward. How awkward was murder?

  Beaming expectantly, she greeted them as exuberantly as she had the gardeners and the builders working outside. Not one single face was familiar.

  ‘Oh! You’re all new. Where are the old team?’

  Faces remained impassive, yet she detected that her comment had made them feel uncomfortable. It was down to the front-of-house staff to give a favourable first impression of the establishment. Even though everything was upside-down – dust sheets everywhere, the carpets taken up, the oak boards exposed and dusty – the ones she’d met previously had coped well.

  A pretty blonde girl with delectable teeth and a polished face seemed to be in charge. She smiled broadly and asked if she could help. Honey was certain that she was as new as the rest, yet she seemed confident for all that. She recalled the other girl’s name badge had said ‘Tanya’.

  ‘Are you new?’ Honey asked.

  It was not pertinent to her enquiries, but one didn’t usually see such a swift and total changeover of personnel in one area all at once. One or two faces might change on a shift, but not every single one.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the girl repeated without answering her question.

  Honey tossed up whether to ask her again. Hell, no, she decided. That wasn’t what she was here for.

  ‘I would like to speak to the manager.’

  A regretful look soured the beautiful face. ‘I am afraid that Mr Parrot is very busy. There is very much work to organize.’

  ‘So I see. But I think he will see me,’ Honey persisted.

  ‘I do not think …’

  ‘Well, I do!’ Throwing caution to the wind, she made the decision to attach some authority to her visit. ‘I’m working with the police on the murder that occurred here. There are a few questions I need to ask.’

  The girl looked taken aback. She mouthed a single word. ‘Oh!’

  It said everything as far as Honey was concerned. Seeing Mr Parrot was
a dead cert. OK, she’d used her words carefully, implying that she was police. She hadn’t actually lied. Another option had been to say that she was here representing the Hotels Association, but working for the police was better.

  It worked. The girl’s smile tightened.

  ‘The police?’

  She looked nervous.

  ‘Yes. Regarding the murder. I’d like to talk to the manager, Mr Parrot?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Mr Parrot. I will ask if he will see you.’

  Was it Honey’s imagination or did the girl’s finger shake as she stabbed at the key pad?

  She turned casually away as the girl used the telephone. Resting her elbows on the desk she pretended to eye what was going on, when in fact she was merely congratulating herself. This was good. It made her feel as though she were in a Mickey Spillane book, from an era when private dicks were the stuff of film noir and wore trench coats and broad-brimmed hats that shielded their eyes. Getting into character was no problem at all. She was no longer Honey Driver, hotel owner who did a bit of sleuthing in her spare time. She was on the case and the case was on her; logical thoughts kept finding their way into her mind.

  The fact was that she wasn’t at all sure that Miss Camper-Young’s problem with the security cameras had anything whatsoever to do with the murder, but on the other hand, what if they’d been cut because there was going to be a murder? What if the perpetrator had been hired in, and in order for him to make his escape in secret, Miss Camper-Young’s wires had been cut for the first time just before Philippe Fabiere had met his very untimely end? It was too much of a coincidence. She couldn’t wait to tell Doherty. Wiping the smirk from her face, she turned a suitably grim expression back to the girl.

  Sonia – according to her name badge – blinked nervously. ‘Mr Parrot, there is a lady here to see you …’ Her voice faltered. Obviously Mr Parrot had cut her short before she could finish. He was probably ordering her to politely tell the ‘lady’ to shove off.

  ‘The police,’ the girl blurted.

  ‘Hannah Driver,’ said Honey.

  ‘Hannah Driver. She is from the police.’