A TASTE TO DIE FOR
A HONEY DRIVER
MYSTERY
JEAN G GOODHIND
Published by Accent Press Ltd – 2013
ISBN 9781909520226
Copyright © Jean G Goodhind 2013
First published by Severn House as
A Taste to Die For by J.G. Goodhind
The right of Jean G Goodhind to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The story contained within this book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publishers: Accent Press Ltd, The Old School, Upper High St, Bedlinog, Mid Glamorgan, CF46 6RY.
Cover design by Joelle Brindley
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
Chapter Twenty Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty One
Chapter Thirty Two
Chapter Thirty Three
Chapter Thirty Four
Chapter Thirty Five
Chapter Thirty Six
Chapter Thirty Seven
Chapter Thirty Eight
Chapter One
A cooking competition between top chefs was bound to be murder. Honey Driver was sure of it.
The event was part of the Bath International Taste Extravaganza – BITE for short. Following a process of elimination, the six finalists were coming together in one place to compete for a £5,000 prize. The money was just reward, but chefs were like stags. When stags clash in the mating season they stick their antlers into each other. Chefs were worse than that; they had knives; worse again it wasn’t something as trivial as sex that wound them up. It was all about cooking. No other rivalry compared to that!
The day had started in a quirky kind of way like so many days in the hospitality industry did.
Despite the hammering of the chambermaid on the bedroom door, the occupant of room twenty had failed to rise and shine, appear at breakfast, or pay his bill.
‘Perhaps he’s dead,’ said Honey’s daughter, Lindsey.
Honey was pragmatic. ‘No worries as long as it’s not food poisoning. It’s bad for business.’
She keyed in the night porter’s number on her instant dial facility. He answered groggily, which wasn’t surprising for a man who hadn’t long clambered into bed.
‘Reg, did you see Mr Slade in number twenty come in late last night?’
‘Yes. Him and his wife came back at about one in the morning.’
‘I guessed that.’ Honey snapped her phone shut. ‘Give me your keys,’ she said to the housekeeper.
‘Did he come in late?’ asked Lindsey, matching her mother’s marching pace up the stairs and along the landing.
‘Yes. With his wife.’
Lindsey giggled. The housekeeper looked puzzled until the penny dropped. Mr Slade, a sales manager for an IT software company, had booked into a single room. He had no woman with him.
‘What’s the betting he’s severely indisposed,’ remarked Lindsey.
Her mother smiled wryly. ‘Where did I get such a worldly-wise child?’
Lindsey, just a shade closer to nineteen than eighteen, grinned wryly back. ‘Under the gooseberry bush?’
‘Poor Mr Slade. If my instinct serves me correctly, we’ll have to do a check of the left luggage in the storeroom and find him something to wear,’ said Honey as she opened the door.
Just as Honey expected, the overnight occupant of room twenty was laid out on the bed stark naked. He was also bound and gagged and wearing a leather harness with little bells that jingled between his legs. The housekeeper quickly threw a crumpled towel over the poor man’s credentials.
The sales manager’s clothes were gone. So were his briefcase and whatever else he had been carrying. The high-class tart he’d picked up had pickled him right and proper. Following a swift assessment of the circumstances, Honey turned to Lindsey. ‘How’s the petty cash?’
‘I refreshed it yesterday afternoon. I’ve only bought postage stamps and a bunch of wild flowers for Mary Jane.’
Her mother raised her eyebrows questioningly.
‘Sir Cedric likes wild flowers. The scent helps him to materialise.’
Mary Jane was their resident doctor of the paranormal, having retired to the hotel from her little house straddling the San Andreas Fault in La Jolla, California. Sir Cedric was one of Mary Jane’s ancestors and the Green River’s resident ghost.
Honey checked the state of his bill from the dossier Lindsey had brought with her, before peering down at the bondage addict.
‘We’ve got your name and address, Mr Slade, and we’ve taken an imprint of your credit card. We’ll give you enough petty cash to get home and we’ll find you some clothes.’
He looked up at her bug-eyed.
‘Do you understand?’ she asked.
He nodded and mumbled.
‘That’s good. So you won’t be offended when we charge you the price of a double room instead of a single.’
More mumbling came from behind his gag, accompanied by a frenzied jerking of his bound hands. In consequence the towel covering his meat and two veg slipped.
Honey readjusted it. ‘Not this early in the morning, please.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Things to do, places to go, and an impatient chef waiting. Lindsey will take care of you.’
Lindsey pulled a face. ‘Thanks a bundle.’
Honey checked the storeroom halfway along the landing, a place of forgotten candlewick dressing gowns, left-behind toys and garments. Unfortunately for Mr Slade, most of the adult garments were women’s clothes, except for a few old chef’s outfits of varying sizes. The choice was obvious: a pink candlewick dressing gown, or a chef’s white jacket, blue checked trousers and tired white clogs.
She laid the chef’s outfit outside the door. Lindsey would deal with the rest.
Smudger Smith, her head chef, was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other. Honey explained what had happened to their guest but he was less than sympathetic.
‘Silly sod! Can we get going? The kitchen’s taken care of …’
He listed all that had been done to ensure a smoothly running kitchen in his absence. Not that it could run as well as when he was there. No chef would countenance anything else. Like lords of the manor, t
hey were masters of all they surveyed. It was the cooking that counted; always the cooking.
The final cook-off was being held at an afternoon ‘do’ in the Pump Rooms, that epitome of Regency elegance. Everything they needed had been transported in the hotel van and installed in fridges adjacent to the competition area. Things were buzzing by the time they got there. The atmosphere was electric.
Stainless steel work tables had been set up on either side of the room. Six chefs had reached the finals. Those already there eyed the new arrival with barely veiled hostility. The looks they were throwing each other were sharper than their knives.
Honey’s ample chest expanded further with pride that her chef, Mark ‘Smudger’ Smith, was one of them. And he was keen. Keen as mustard. Especially since he’d heard there’d been a change of judges.
He’d arrived at the hotel early that morning. By the time everyone else was up and about he’d been whizzing around the kitchen like lightning, gathering pots, pans and ingredients. He whipped one straight out of the kitchen porter’s hand, still hot from the dishwasher.
‘Have you heard the news?’ His voice, his demeanour – everything crackled with excitement.
Honey had made a wild stab at an answer. ‘All the other chefs have withdrawn because they heard you were entering.’
He grinned at Honey, his eyes shining. ‘That’s possible. OK, so what’s the second best thing?’
‘You’ve bribed the judges.’
‘Getting warm.’ He’d paused enjoying the moment of keeping her in suspense. ‘Neville phoned while you were upstairs. Casper has been asked to step in as chairman of the judges. Now there’s a man who knows a classic when he tastes it.’
Her dear, slightly volatile – well, very volatile – chef wasn’t far wrong. When it came to fastidious tastes, Casper St John Gervais came top of the pile. He adored quality and no amount of money or persuasion was likely to colour his judgement.
However, it wasn’t likely to be that easy. ‘You’re up against stiff competition.’
Smudger jerked his head in a so-so fashion. ‘At least there’s a chance the judging will be fair.’ For no apparent reason, his expression suddenly darkened. ‘As long as everyone plays fair,’ he added.
That was the point at which Honey began to get really apprehensive.
Her misgivings were justified the moment she saw Smudger’s reaction to Oliver Stafford, head chef at the Beau Brummell Hotel. There were some people Smudger liked, some he tolerated, and some he hated on sight. Most chefs and catering suppliers fitted into the second bracket; Oliver Stafford fitted into the third.
She might have been able to keep the lid on things if it hadn’t been for the chicken breasts.
‘Someone’s been in my fridge,’ said Smudger, his evil look swivelling in Oliver Stafford’s direction. ‘These aren’t my breasts. See? They’re not properly defrosted. Mine were totally defrosted. And anyway, I looked in his fridge. He had boxed stuff. Ready-ground-up chicken. No need to pinch mine!’
Honey grabbed his arm before he had chance to swing over and get himself in position to slug Stafford on the chin.
‘Don’t! Do you want to get disqualified or do you want to win?’ Swallowing her misgivings, she kept her voice even and appealed with her eyes.
She felt his arm relax. The anger remained, his flushed face boiling with it. He began cracking eggs.
‘I could kill him,’ he said, clutching his egg whisk with a murderous look in his eyes.
‘With an egg whisk?’ Her mind boggled.
‘There are ways,’ he muttered, his eyes narrowing to needle-fine slits.
Unfortunately, the object of his criminal intent was working alongside them at the next table.
‘The dish, Smudger. Concentrate on the dish.’
‘He nicked my breasts.’
Other ears might have misinterpreted quite where Smudger was coming from, but luckily no one heard.
‘He just took yours by mistake.’
Smudger scowled. ‘I don’t believe that.’
‘Lucky we brought some spare.’ She said it gaily in an effort to jolly him along.
The noise of meat being minced sounded from Oliver Stafford’s station. Smudger glared at him. Oliver smirked back. He also had the effrontery to wink at Honey. She had no problem with that. She liked having youngish men wink at her. It was cheeky. Sweet, really. But the look in his eyes was far bolder than that. My, but he was sexy! And he knew it. That much was obvious.
A bell sounded.
‘Let the contest commence!’ proclaimed the master of ceremonies, a professional man of ample proportions, his face as red as his jacket.
The judges swept forward. There were four of them; a food writer, a television chef, an official from the tourist board, and Casper.
Resplendent in a lavender jacket and crisp white cravat, Casper St John Gervais, chair of the Bath Hotels Association, was the most high-visibility judge the contest had ever had. He looked absolutely wonderful. But that was Casper: always rising far above the occasion.
He slid past Honey, smelling of lavender. ‘Wonderful attendance,’ he murmured with a sideways shift of his mouth. ‘People from all over the world.’
‘They must have heard you’d be here.’
‘How sweet,’ he said, and glided on.
She wondered if his aftershave had been chosen to match his jacket.
Judging that the worst part of the crisis was over and that Smudger was as self-controlled as he was capable of being, she joined the gathering who’d come to watch rather than to participate. En route she bumped into Stella Broadbent, owner of the Beau Brummell Hotel. Oliver Stafford was her head chef.
When they spotted each other, the smiles froze on each of their faces.
‘Hannah!’
She spoke Honey’s real name sharply and quickly as though she wanted it out of the way.
Honey reciprocated. ‘Stella!’
Friends would have air kissed. They didn’t. Their teeth remained bared like vampires competing to take the first bite.
As usual Stella Broadbent was wearing enough gold jewellery to sink the Titanic. It gleamed, it dazzled, and it was far too over-the-top for the outfit she was wearing. The gold was the reason for her nickname, ‘Bling’.
Stella’s smile was red and hard. ‘Everything going well with your chef?’
I hope he drops dead, she means.
Honeyʼs sweet smile camouflaged a pretty sour thought. ‘I think there was a mix up with chicken breasts. I think your chef picked ours up by mistake.’
The wide mouth stalled into a rictus smile. ‘If he did, I’m sure it was a genuine mistake. But I doubt it. We only use the highest quality ingredients.’
‘Frozen ingredients?’
Stella was one of the early birds who’d navigated their way to the drinks table. Judging by the colour of her cheeks, she’d found it long before anyone else. Rumour had it that Mr Broadbent had been much older than her. On his death he’d left her a small fortune. Rumour also had it that she’d been celebrating ever since.
‘Such accusations! I assume this means you’re going to be a bad loser!’ Her manner was haughty, her tone belligerent.
‘I’ll send you a bill.’
Stella burst out laughing. ‘You’ll do what?’
Honey waited for her to stop laughing. Punch lines only achieved their full impact when someone was paying full attention.
‘Unless you can’t afford to pay for a few measly chicken breasts?’
Stella’s mouth froze open. The liquid in her wine glass slopped from side to side.
Honey turned her back abruptly. ‘I’ll send it to you.’
She could do with a drink herself after doing that. She was no coward, but Stella made her toes curl. There was something about those nineteen-seventies shoulder pads, the yellow and black outfit that made Honey want to swat her with a fly whisk. And all that bloody gold. How did she afford it?
What was even worse, the
Beau Brummell was one of the few privately owned hotels in Bath with its own car park. Nothing could take the beauty away from the perfectly designed city that had flowered in the days of sedan chairs and fine carriages pulled by pairs of horses. But this was the age of convenience travel. Despite all the urging to use public transport, people did not easily give up their cars. To be able to park them and wander off into the city centre was a rarity in a place like Bath. Honey told herself she wasn’t jealous but seethed all the way to the drinks table.
Liquid refreshments to suit most tastes were on offer. Those in the audience of a health-conscious nature could sip the iron-rich water distilled from a Georgian fountain. The Celts had worshipped the hot spring, the Romans had splashed about in it naked, the Georgians had ‘taken the waters’ fully clothed and modern-day tourists drank little glasses of it. Some swore by its health-giving properties. Some of those gathered just spat it out and sought more palatable alternatives.
Wine could be purchased by the glass or the bottle. Bottles went very quickly. Honey restricted herself to one glass. This was going to be a long day. Tonight, stalls would be set out all around Abbey Square where the public would be invited to sample food cooked by chefs from the city’s top-class hotels. The money collected would go to charity.
Honey had promised herself that she’d keep a clear head. If Smudger won this competition he’d want to get drunk and if he lost he’d want to get drunk. She was there to channel his energies to the outdoor event, impressing on him it was the good causes that would win the day – that’s if he didn’t win the competition. Either way he’d be unbearable to live with. With that thought uppermost in her mind, she reached for a second glass, had second thoughts and resolved to remain sober.
Just as the final judging was about to commence, her phone rang. It was her mother.
‘Has he won?’
‘They’re just doing the final judging now.’
‘Have you told Casper he should win?’ Honey closed her eyes and counted to ten. Her mother had no scruples when it came to being successful; a reason why she’d accumulated only rich husbands.
A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 1