Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Horses don’t like smoke.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  She told him about the day she’d gone riding with Lindsey. ‘As you know, my daughter is an expert on a wide variety of subjects. She’s been riding since she was seven years old so horses come pretty high on the list.’

  He listened intently as she described the man Lindsey was sure had been watching them, the bonfire, the horse getting upset, and Lindsey mentioning that horses were afraid of smoke.

  In her mind Honey recalled something else about the scene that she hadn’t considered too deeply before.

  ‘The lighting at that end of the barn was turned off. I saw Deirdre Olsen switch it off as she led us in as though she didn’t want us to see what or who was at that end of the barn. And I think I do recall smelling cigarette smoke.

  ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘She knew someone else was there. She knew! I bet it was the man Lindsey saw and Mrs Olsen knew he was there. What’s more, she knew who he was.’

  ‘The man you didn’t see.’

  ‘He must have ducked out of sight just as I got there. It was Mildred’s fault. She was no racehorse, that was for sure.’

  ‘And this Mildred. Could she testify to this?’

  Honey nearly choked on cream and crumbs. ‘Mildred is a Welsh cob.’

  Doherty leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He looked out at the scene beyond the window. The fact that he was biting at his bottom lip made her think there was something he wasn’t telling her.

  She stated what she thought he was thinking. ‘The husband did it. Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I didn’t say that I thought the husband did it, but he is the prime suspect and, besides, he’s done a runner.’

  Honey got the picture. ‘Oh. Police politics?’

  Doherty nodded. ‘The powers that be, namely my superior officers, want the case cleared up and my orders are to go after Olsen.’

  ‘Even though you think he didn’t do it.’

  Doherty sighed as he wiped his face with his hands. ‘I’ve got a certain budget, a certain amount of manpower, and a certain amount of time. And there are other considerations. If Olsen killed his wife – understandable in the circumstances – what were his reasons for killing our interior designer friend? What was the point? Unless there were two killers of course, but I can’t see it as an option. The only thing linking the two murders is the poison – administered it seems as a tonic.’

  ‘Mary Jane takes it as a tonic.’

  Doherty shook his head in disbelief. ‘Good grief!’

  Both hands cradling the cup, Honey looked at the tea. She enjoyed this amateur sleuthing lark and enjoyed being with Steve. For the first time ever she found herself being made to face the serious side of the work and to concentrate on it more than she had ever done before. This was a job Steve Doherty did full-time and fun didn’t come into it. He deserved some free time and the prospect of being together without work intruding was very attractive, though she wouldn’t tell him that just yet. She had to play it cool so he could give his full attention to the job. Still, perhaps she could just hint that she was willing …?

  ‘Look …’

  She was just about to do this when her phone rang.

  ‘My mother,’ she said softly.

  Doherty buried his head in his hands.

  ‘Hannah? Is that you, Hannah?’

  She wanted to say, ‘Well, if you tapped my number on your cute little pink phone, it must be me,’ but she’d only be told not to be facetious. At ten years old the word had been ‘cheeky’. Now it was ‘facetious’. Such was the passage of time.

  ‘Of course it’s me. Hello, Mother. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s what I can do for you,’ Gloria declared airily. ‘This so-called interior designer refuses to hang this Meissen mirror that I’ve bought for you. She says that it’s very uncool and hasn’t been given a place number. Why does a present to my daughter have to have a place number? It’s not coming to dine. Only people coming to dine have place numbers.’

  Honey rolled her eyes. Sensing the prospect of a verbal tug of war, Doherty looked away. Conversations with Honey’s mother embarrassed him at the best of times. She was always right even when she was wrong. He found people like that very difficult to deal with. Honey was well practised.

  ‘Mother, each decorative item has a place number on the plan originally drawn up by Philippe prior to his death.’

  ‘Then surely my mirror should have a place number. It’s Meissen. It cost a lot of money.’

  Honey sighed heavily and laid her head back against the wall. She could hear Camilla making bitter comments in the background.

  ‘I don’t have to work here, you know. Fabiere designs are sought after by people of note, and if I don’t have carte blanche, I’m out of here!’

  Instant visions of an unfinished refurbishment flashed into her mind. The summer season was approaching, the time of year when room occupancy was at its highest. Everything had to be completed by then. Reception would be a shambles if Camilla walked out of the job.

  ‘Let me speak to Camilla.’

  Her mother turned sarcastic. ‘Camilla! Do you mean the gangly young woman with the Snow White hairdo and the lips to match?’

  Honey groaned. Camilla would have heard.

  ‘Let me speak to her, Mother!’ More firmly now.

  Gloria did as ordered.

  ‘I will not have the designs of Fabiere Interiors ruined by a second-rate piece of kit,’ declared a haughty Camilla Boylan.

  The tone of voice of the new boss of Fabiere Interiors was even haughtier than that of the old one. Camilla was finding her feet.

  ‘Has it got little flowers and cherubs all over it?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Yes. It has.’

  ‘I know just the sort. It won’t suit reception.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Do you have a mother, Camilla?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In Scotland.’

  Scotland! Honey was envious and said so.

  ‘She’s a long way away and therefore you are beyond parental control. Believe me, you do not know just how lucky you are. Mine lives close by, and still thinks I’m ten years old and cannot be trusted to do anything grown-up. Will you do me a big favour?’

  There was a pause before Camilla responded.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you in the course of the next few days to drop that bloody mirror. Don’t tell her you’re going to drop it. Just do it. And make sure it needs substantial repairs. And don’t go on to tell me that it’s a very expensive item. Remember, she’s there listening to your end of this conversation. Can you do that?’

  Choosing her words carefully, Camilla said that she would do exactly as Honey wished.

  Her mother insisted on having another word.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with Cybil to ask her if she’d like to come on a weekend cruise to Amsterdam. I tried ringing her, but got no reply. I thought she might have liked bringing her high-powered binoculars with her and see if we could see any whales on the crossing. She is there isn’t she? I know she has a cottage in Devon, but I don’t have the number for that. If you’re out that way, perhaps you could pop in and tell her I’ve been trying to get in touch.’

  ‘Problem solved?’ said Doherty as she closed the connection.

  She gave him the gist of it.

  He grinned. ‘So what about seven years’ bad luck?’

  ‘I’ll chance it. So,’ she continued, not bothering to mention her mother’s request to look in on Cybil Camper-Young. ‘Where do you think Ferdinand Olsen has got to?’

  ‘We’re checking likely places. It shouldn’t take too long. He’s not the sort to get lost without leaving a trace. Something will turn up.’

  ‘Wish I could say the same for the Hoffners,’ said Honey.

  Doherty sighed. ‘I’ll
do what I can.’

  ‘I’ve still got their things. I can only hope they’ve gone wandering and got waylaid somewhere.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Ferdinand Olsen gazed at the sea beyond Star Point. Devon was where he and Deirdre used to come when they wanted to get away from things. His head was aching and he had bad abrasions after the incident with the horse. Superficial, they’d said at the hospital. Well it didn’t bloody well feel superficial! He’d opted not to respond to the police request to call in and give them a statement. He wasn’t a fool. He was prime suspect and had no intention of facing the music.

  He’d considered hiding out in the flat they co-owned, the one that Deirdre had enthused about buying back then, but he preferred the sea whereas Deirdre had preferred the countryside. She’d also hated being parted from her four-legged darlings, so in latter years she had rarely accompanied him here. He’d never had a problem with that. Her half of the king-size bed in the aft cabin had been readily filled by a long line of alternative companions more nubile and sea-friendly than her.

  After going out to St Margaret’s Court and bagging a share of the loot from that prat Parrot, he’d arrived in time for tea. Not that he drank much tea. Tonight he was alone with just a bottle of gin and enjoying the view. He’d hardly seen another soul; just one or two cars. One had paused. He’d assumed the driver was admiring the view. It was well worth it. After a moment it turned full circle and gone back the way it had came, probably looking for a guest house, somewhere to stop for the night.

  The estuary shone like silver beneath the moon. Not a wave, not a ripple disturbed its metallic surface. The sight of it made him impatient to leave, but he was cautious. It had taken him all day to stock the boat with tinned food and fresh water, check the rig, change the engine oil, and purchase fresh gas canisters. Satisfied that everything was in order, he’d been poring over his charts, marking his course across the English Channel to St Malo. If time and tide permitted he might take the bull by the horns and strike directly for Santander in northern Spain. Everything was in order. He could do it easily.

  He found himself thinking of Deirdre. His hand shook at the thought of her battered and bruised body. But it wasn’t his fault, he told himself. She only had herself to blame. She’d loved those horses more than she had him. That’s what had soured their relationship. He poured another gin over crushed ice and a twist of lemon, then added the tonic.

  The idea was to leave in the early hours of the morning when the town was asleep and the harbourmaster and customs were not at their height of efficiency. In all probability the police had warned seaports and airports to keep a look out for him. He wanted a new life, one without dreadful Deirdre and all the complications her death would present. No one would notice him slipping out of the harbour and the boat was kept victualled up with tins and full water and diesel tanks.

  The stillness of the moon on the water was quite captivating. The sky was clear now, the clouds and rain from earlier in the evening having blown over. The streets were empty, the pavements and roads glistening in the moonlight.

  With a sigh of satisfaction, chest tight with pride, he eyed the thirty-five-foot sailing yacht that would take him off on the adventure he’d always dreamed of; away from these shores, away from his problems. Sail south until the butter melts. Wasn’t that the old saying?

  ‘To you and me,’ he said, raising his glass in a toast to the waiting yacht.

  As he did so he fancied a shadow solidified and moved. Lowering his glass he took a good long stare before realizing that the moon had hidden behind a ragged cloud. A few seconds and it was shining again. All was well with the world.

  At three in the morning he quietly slipped the lines. In order to maintain absolute silence, he avoided starting the engine, using the boat hook to push himself away from the quay.

  Luckily the wind was blowing off the land. The boat eased away without too much effort.

  For a brief moment he thought he smelled gas but decided it was a trick of the breeze. Someone else on some other boat had a leak in their gas line. How stupid was that? If it sunk into the bilges, one spark and boom! All over.

  On clearing the boats berthed to either side of him, his finger hovered over the engine start. He paused on hearing the sound of a small inboard engine chugging along the fairway at the end of the pontoons.

  Olsen ducked just in case he was seen. It was pretty certain that it was the customs vessel doing its nightly round – a little later than usual. The last thing he wanted was them stopping him and asking questions. So far he’d been incredibly lucky. It would take a while yet before the police traced his Devon address or the fact that he had an independent means of getting away.

  The sound of the launch faded. Olsen breathed a sigh of relief. It was all over. He was on his way.

  It was the last thought in his head before he pressed the ignition. One spark and the engine ignited. An almighty explosion split the boat from stem to stern. Flames leapt nearly twenty feet into the air.

  A host of people rose from their beds and came rushing to see the sight.

  Nerve-jarring alarms, courtesy of the emergency services, sounded in response to hurried calls. Mouths gaped and spines shivered in response to the scene.

  ‘Must have been gas,’ someone suggested.

  Little comment was made. All eyes stayed fixed on the pillar of flame and the choking smoke coming from what was left of the boat and the man on board.

  Chapter Thirty

  The evening out with Camilla Boylan had not been as useful as Honey had hoped. With hindsight she told herself she should have known better. Having taken over the task of refurbishing the reception area of the Green River Hotel, Camilla was bound to try and make the most of it. She started off by trying to persuade Honey to use ‘more luxurious’ fabrics, by which she meant ‘very much more expensive’ fabrics. ‘We could go a little away from the French theme and turn a little medieval. How about a wonderful Italian Renaissance style painting? Pride of place over the fireplace?’

  Honey considered how it would look – that was before she reminded herself that she didn’t have a fireplace.

  ‘We can get a really decent marble one from a reclamation yard,’ gushed Camilla, undeterred by the mere fact that a fireplace was sadly lacking in Honey’s reception area. ‘I saw a real beauty out at Frome Reclamation. It came from a Bavarian castle somewhere in eastern Europe.’

  ‘I thought that Bavarian castles were usually situated in – well – Bavaria!’

  Camilla shook her glossy bob. ‘Nope! Not all. This one was in Romania. The locals burnt it down.’

  Quite frankly it sounded like one of the tallest stories she’d ever heard, though of course Mary Jane told some that were out of this world – quite literally, in fact. She sensed that Camilla was out to build her reputation and her bank account post-Philippe Fabiere. It made her feel like a guinea pig.

  ‘Did you tell my mother this?’

  Camilla swigged at her glass of Chardonnay, emerging from behind it looking pretty disgusted before she remembered she was sitting opposite her client. Tactlessness could mean the loss of a client and a fully rounded fee. She found a smile.

  ‘Your mother was just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Like hell she was. My mother likes to be in control of her life, my life and the life of everybody around her. That includes my hotel.’

  ‘Well, that being as it may …—’

  ‘Look. Can we stop right there. You’re here to increase your fee on my project, and I’m here to ask you some questions that you may very well have been asked before.’

  Assuming that Honey was on the same wavelength as she was – in other words paints, carpets, swatches, and cushions – Camilla dived into her bag and took out pen and pad.

  ‘Fire away! Where shall we start? Marble fireplace? Or the painting? Something solid and dramatic in a gilt frame? Caravaggio would be nice. A view of the Grand Canal in Venice …’

&nb
sp; ‘Let’s start with where were you on the night Philippe was murdered, and where were you the night before last?’

  The air of businesslike camaraderie turned to slush. The pen hovered above the notepad. The face visibly paled and thick mascara flaked into dust as Camilla blinked and blinked again.

  ‘I’ve already told the police where I was.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I was at a fair. I told them. They’ve verified that I was.’

  ‘Where was this fair?’

  ‘In the Victoria Rooms in Bristol.’

  Honey presumed it was some kind of fair featuring the latest in interior design.

  ‘Was Julia there?’

  Camilla’s jaw dropped before she brayed like a donkey. ‘Julia? What would Miss Paint-and-Paper want at a Health and Homeopathy Fair?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Camilla presumed that Honey’s shocked expression had something to do with her take on Julia.

  ‘Julia slaps on the paint and paper like there’s no tomorrow. And I’m not talking about the walls of a house …’

  ‘I know,’ said Honey, raising her hand to the full stop position, palm outwards. Her insides had turned to blancmange. This was a connection! She piled in. ‘I’ll concede that Julia does indeed wear a ton of make-up, but we’re not talking about Julia. We’re talking about you. You say you went to a fair, a fair selling homeopathic medicine and health food. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re interested in that kind of thing.’

  Camilla frowned. ‘If you mean by “that kind of thing” that I prefer natural remedies to the drugs piled into us by an over-zealous medical profession, then yes. That’s me.’

  It was difficult to speak with a dry mouth, but Honey did her best. ‘How about belladonna? Do you have any?’

  ‘Not on me. Do you want some?’

  Honey fancied Camilla was being sarcastic. She shouldn’t have done that.

  The suddenness with which Honey leaned across the table caused Camilla to gasp and lean away, the chair tilting on two legs as she did so. ‘Look,’ she said, grabbing a chunk of Camilla’s blouse. ‘Someone doped Philippe with belladonna before throttling him with a very decorative Victorian lavatory pull handle. Someone also did the same to Deirdre Olsen before throwing her beneath the most agitated of her four-legged friends. She got trampled to death.’