The latch on the barn door was only fastened with police tape. She understood from Doherty that the horses had been removed by a charity organization – the very one she suspected Mrs Olsen had been fundraising for at the car boot sale.
The door opened smoothly. The interior still smelled of horses, damp straw, and fresh hay. It was very dark. She fumbled for the light switch, found it, flicked it on … the lights failed. The darkness remained.
She stood at the entrance. Shall I go on? she asked herself. ‘Yep. You bet.’
That darkness couldn’t purely be due to the lack of light. She realized shutters had been pulled across the windows that ranged the length of the barn, around ten feet above the ground. Doubtless someone from Crime Prevention had come along to ensure that the property was left as secure as possible.
Reaching out tentatively to her right, she followed the line of stalls, not sure what she was looking for but feeling she had to go down to the end. It was in the last stall that Deirdre Olsen had been found. That was also the place where she’d imagined seeing something – or someone – move and disturb the horse.
She did what she could, walking around the stall, kicking at the ground, not sure what she expected to find. She looked up to see a dim light at floor level. If she remembered rightly, there’d been a tack room right opposite this stall. Slowly, placing one foot carefully in front of the other, she headed across the concrete runway between stall and tack room.
Heart hammering, she reached for the door handle. Just like those of the main door, the hinges had been kept well oiled so when she pushed it opened silently and smoothly.
A small night light had been left on. Her heart returned to beating at a healthier level. Any kind of light, no matter how dim, was better than none at all. She made herself a promise to get her blood pressure checked. But not yet, she added as an afterthought.
There was nothing in here she wouldn’t expect in a tack room, including a medicine cupboard. Horses became ill too. At present it was hanging open and empty. She guessed the police had taken away whatever had been in there for fingerprinting and such like.
The tack room smelled as tack rooms do: linseed oil and leather polish. Shiny leather saddles lined the walls behind her. A long bench ran the full length of the wall beneath them. Hay covered the floor beneath the bench, scattered like straw across a stable floor. Honey frowned.
Hay?
She went down on all fours to check that it really was hay. Picking up a handful and taking a good sniff confirmed it. Why spread hay over the floor? Horses ate hay. They lay on a bedding of straw. And why spread anything at all beneath a workbench?
There was only one conclusion she could draw from that. The hay had been spread out to hide something like a secret trapdoor leading to stolen loot – or something else.
‘Curb your imagination this minute,’ she warned herself beneath her breath.
Burrowing further beneath the bench she began scraping the hay away, throwing it behind her like a dog digging for a bone.
Her knuckles hit against something hard and metallic. She saw what it was. A safe! A combination safe! She tugged at it. It opened.
Amazing! Someone had left it open?
The light was dim, but her fingers and eyes went into partnership. Rolls of money had a feel all of their own. It struck her as crazy that the safe had been left open – or had it? More to the point, how long had it been left open? Not long. The police would have noticed. Which meant …
Her nose hit the floor as strong hands gripped her ankles, yanking her out backwards, knees scraping on the floor.
‘Hey!’ A very apt comment. She didn’t have time to say anything else. Someone hit her on the back of her head and sent her sprawling on to her face. Something hard was pressed into the nape of her neck.
‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot.’
It was a male voice. She didn’t need to ask what he was here for. The safe was already open. Someone had come in shortly before she had. She’d disturbed him.
‘You’ve come for the money?’
Again a jab to the neck.
‘Shut up!’
It was a gun. It had to be a gun. Being brave and sticking up to him was not an option. International guests beefing about a hotel bill were easy to stand up to. She could do it any day. Guns were more dangerous and best avoided.
Be a coward, she told herself. She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth and waited for him to go.
There was a scuffling of feet on the hay she’d scattered around as he grabbed what he wanted.
The gun jabbed her again. ‘Count to one hundred before you get up from there. Poke your nose out any sooner and I’ll blow it off. Understand?’
Of course she understood. She was very fond of her nose. Neat and unobtrusive, it sat in the middle of her face not needing any kind of surgical reduction. She nodded.
A slight scuffling and then silence. Taking no chances, she was slow to raise her head just in case she received another jab in the neck. It didn’t happen. The likelihood was that he was gone, but she wanted to be sure. Rolling over on to her back, she paused for breath and listened. She heard nothing but the scurrying of a mouse and the cooing of a pigeon, taking advantage of the extra living space now the horses and the humans had moved out.
Her mother and Mary Jane were still in the car. They looked up when she came puffing and panting with bits of hay sticking out of her hair.
Her mother got out so she could get into the back seat. ‘You look hot. And the scarecrow hairdo isn’t big this season.’
‘Yes, I am hot, and I fully appreciate your comments about my hair.’
‘Find anything out?’
‘Yes.’
Her mother looked expectantly at her. ‘Well? What did you find out?’
‘That I hate guns!’
Her shouting like that caused both of them to swivel round like wooden tops.
Breathing now normal, Honey found her voice. ‘Did you see anyone run out here while I was gone?’
They shook their heads.
‘Nobody came out this way,’ remarked Mary Jane.
That was no big surprise really. She recalled the day she’d gone riding with Lindsey, when they’d seen a man burning rubbish and watching them. When they’d discovered that whatever had been in the cardboard boxes he’d been burning had come from France. When they’d guessed that some of it must have come from Philippe’s store room. She hadn’t been so sure before being held down on the floor with a gun in her back. Now she was. The Olsens had been involved in some kind of antiques scam. Philippe had found out. Now they were all dead.
She recounted all this to her mother and Mary Jane.
Mary Jane screwed her face up like an over-ripe crab apple and shook her head.
‘If they’re all dead, that means someone else is also involved, that’s if there really is an antiques scam going on.’
‘Well, I think the game plan goes something like this. Philippe’s stuff was stolen. Philippe discovered what they were doing and …’ Honey flapped her hands to emphasize how elementary this all was.
The two older women looked at each other.
Honey knew what they were thinking without them saying a damn word. Philippe may have discovered that the Olsens were stealing from him, but he was already dead. So he couldn’t possibly have killed them.
Mary Jane shook her head forlornly. ‘In all my years of experience, I’ve never come across a ghost who killed anybody, even if they had done him wrong.’
Honey hated finding herself in a cul-de-sac, though she had to admit it wasn’t as bad as being on the end of a gun barrel.
‘So who do you think the guy was with the gun?’ asked Mary Jane.
Honey shook her head. She didn’t have a clue.
‘How about we take a look round? I’ve got a pretty pistol myself.’
Much to Honey’s surprise, Mary Jane opened her glove box and fetched out a long-barrelled gun of some description.
> ‘It’s a Colt .45,’ Mary Jane explained cheerfully. ‘Quite a museum piece really, but it does still work.’
She’d totally misinterpreted the looks on the faces of Honey and her mother. Gloria pointed out that it was against the law to carry a gun without a licence.
Honey corrected her. ‘It’s against the law to own a weapon without a licence. Said weapon is supposed to be broken down and kept under lock and key. It’s a major offence to carry one around in your glove compartment.’
‘I haven’t told a soul that I have one,’ Mary Jane said earnestly, as though that would add some weight if she did happen to get arrested.
‘Put it away!’
Mother and daughter both breathed a sigh of relief once the weapon was out of sight. It occurred to Honey that in a matter of days she’d heard of two old ladies armed and ready to shoot.
‘We could have gone after that guy and shot his ass,’ Mary Jane muttered. She sounded severely disappointed.
‘Did that guy really pull a gun on you?’ Gloria asked.
‘You bet he did,’ Honey responded.
Her mother gave a curt nod of her head. ‘Your father pulled a gun on me once. He said he’d shoot me if I didn’t stop spending more than my allowance.’
Honey failed to make a comment, and not just because she had some sympathy with her father. Her mother was still a clothes horse in her seventies. It stood to reason that she’d been lethal when she was young.
But it wasn’t just that. Honey was still a little numb and bruised from her ordeal. Besides that, she was still trying to fathom what the hell was going on. Who was the man with the gun anyway? That was something she had to find out.
Chapter Thirty-eight
The Hoffners spilled across reception, throwing their arms around Honey and showering her with kisses.
‘It is so good to be back,’ trilled Frau Hoffner.
They said the same thing in both languages over and over again – and who could blame them?
Honey invited them to join her for a glass of champagne.
‘Tell me all,’ she enthused. ‘Who did it and why?’
Frau Hoffner picked up her knitting, leaving it to her husband to explain.
‘Go on, Wilhelm. Tell Mrs Driver all about it.’
‘Please, call me Honey. Most of my friends do.’
The old couple beamed broadly.
‘That is so nice of you,’ said Frau Hoffner.
‘It was like this,’ Herr Hoffner began, his eyes shining with delight at the prospect of being able to recount his story all over again. Apparently they’d already signed a deal with a national newspaper, but they decided that the exclusivity of the contract did not preclude them from telling her.
Wilhelm Hoffner told it from the very beginning, when the other painters had asked him if he was able to do the job.
‘Warren and Peter dropped me off at the hotel – St Margaret’s – to do some painting. It wasn’t too bad a job, although the corridor was very dingy and I never saw a soul there. Anyway, there I was … doing my work. I take great pride in my work, you see.’
Honey intimated that, yes, indeed she did know. Pride beamed all over Herr Hoffner’s face.
He carried on explaining. ‘I work hard. I get hungry. I get thirsty. I go to kitchen, but I get lost. Then I find a secret door. I push. There are steps downwards. I go down steps and find myself in a room full of treasure!’
He went on to describe the things that were in there. Something heavy and sickening curdled in Honey’s stomach. He was describing the things she actually knew were in Philippe’s store room, things that were on the list Lindsey had downloaded.
‘Have you told the police this?’
He nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I take it you took your wife back there to show her what you found.’
He nodded again. ‘They were things in storage – that’s what I thought. Gerda likes beautiful things. There were some very pretty pieces of Meissen. She likes the little cherubs and the pretty flowers on Meissen statuettes and candlesticks. I thought she might like to see them but I could not do that openly. People might not like it, so I found her some overalls …’
Honey felt a great sense of relief. No dishonest motive was involved, and luckily the police had a copy of the list and had deduced exactly what they’d found.
Frau Hoffner interrupted. ‘There are some very beautiful things. We were very careful not to disturb anything. I took pictures.’
She said it proudly, her deep-set eyes shining with delight.
Honey prided herself on working things out, and what had happened next presented no problem to her. She briefly interrupted and told them what she knew.
‘Those articles were stolen. You were in great danger. You should have known that.’
They shrugged. ‘One more chance at adventure. It was worth it.’
‘The people who discovered and tied you up – they weren’t Russian by any chance?’
Herr Hoffner shook his head. ‘Definitely not. I have seen some of those who work at the hotel on security. They are very broad and big. The person who knocked us out and tied us up was tall but slim.’ He frowned. ‘There was a smell – the person had a definite smell …’
Honey waited while he strained to remember.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I should know what the person smelled of, but I cannot quite name it. I am sorry.’
It was a great shame, but Honey was loath to push him. He’d been through enough.
‘Let’s finish this champagne,’ she said with gay abandon. ‘I’m so relieved to see you safe and sound.’
‘We are relieved too,’ said Frau Hoffner. ‘And I so missed my knitting.’
‘I expect you did.’
‘Cigarettes,’ he said suddenly. ‘The man smelled of cigarettes! I should have known that. How silly of me. But not English cigarettes.’
‘Russian? Turkish? French?’
‘Possibly. I’m not sure.’
Peering past the happy Hoffners she saw a shadowy Mary Jane listening around the door. She was wearing a less than welcoming expression, symbolically stuffing wads of cotton wool into her ears.
Chapter Thirty-nine
The smell of French perfume always preceded the appearance of Gloria Cross.
‘Have you spoken to Cybil about handing in that gun yet?’ she asked.
Honey was checking the wines and spirits order against the racks in the cellar. Her response to her mother’s question was muted. Just a kind of ‘Hmmm?’
‘That gun should be put out of her reach. Her mind’s not what it was. She’s acting very strangely.’
Honey cocked an eyebrow in her mother’s direction. Gloria Cross never left the house without painted finger and toe nails, lipstick, and a colour-coordinated outfit. And she never wore flat shoes. If ever Vogue published a magazine for septuagenarians, she’d most likely make the front cover.
‘Do you think it’s dementia?’ Honey offered.
‘No!’ Again a resolute response. ‘People with dementia are still people. Cybil’s decided to be a cat. In her opinion the cat world is far more civilized than the human one.’
‘She could have something there.’
Her mother was less than pleased with this answer. ‘Don’t be facetious. It’s ridiculous. Whoever heard of a woman wanting to be a cat?’
Honey didn’t mention Catwoman. Cybil in tight-fitting spandex was not what this was all about. Something had gone ping in Miss Cybil Camper-Young’s mind. OK, in her case it was a bit unusual, but in old people in general it was not entirely unheard of.
‘I’ve been talking to Mary Jane about it …’ her mother began.
Alarm bells began to ring in Honey’s mind. She stopped counting the bottles of Chateau de Rieu. Her mother was looking very serious.
‘And?’
‘She reckons hypnotism might work. Mary Jane is very good at hypnotism.’
So that was the reason for the sudden increase
in elderly camaraderie – that and Mary Jane’s venture into palmistry and the forecast for her mother’s love life.
‘Mother, how are you going to achieve that? I know nothing about it, but I have heard that in order for hypnotism to work the subject has to be willing to be hypnotized. I can’t see your friend Cybil being very willing at all. You’d have to tie her to a chair.’
Her mother looked indignant. ‘She should be very pleased that she’s got good friends to help her. I wouldn’t dream of tying her to a chair. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me and she’s stronger than me.’
Honey sighed. Her mother had made up her mind and there was nothing she could do about it. For the moment she had other fish to fry. Doherty had sent a team round to the tack room to check the safe for fingerprints. What with the body in the tour bus and checking out the Hoffners’ report regarding the stash that they’d found in the deep cellar at the hotel, he was having a pretty busy time. Honey was desperate to get involved but sensed this was becoming something big and that she should stand back and leave it to the professionals.
Ordering wines and spirits, dealing with clients and checking bookings took up most of her day. A sales rep from a soft drinks firm took her out to lunch. He was young, boastful, and fancied his chances with an older woman. He was also after her soft drinks order. In an effort to clinch a deal he began bragging about the places he supplied with his upmarket and rather expensive bottles of tonic water, pineapple juice, and ginger ale. All this while his knee brushed against hers – ‘by accident’!
St Margaret’s Court Hotel was mentioned.
‘Excellent cellars,’ he reported. ‘Stretching the length of the building. They’ve got their own sommelier of course. He told me that there were some cellars they’d never found their way into from inside the building, though they knew there were outside entrances. They don’t bother with them, of course. They don’t need to. They’ve got plenty of storage room.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
Detecting her increased interest, he leaned forward and gazed into her eyes. She felt his knee press more firmly against hers. His voice dropped to a whisper.
Deadly Lampshades (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 5) Page 20