A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Goodhind, Jean G

‘Of course not.’

  ‘You should. Tell him you won’t do that police liaison thingy any more if he doesn’t give him top marks.’

  ‘Bye, Mother.’

  She flipped her phone shut. Her mother believed you could achieve anything if you bullied hard enough. And Honey just couldn’t seem to say no to her.

  Casper St John Gervais was hobnobbing with the other judges. Heads together, pens poised over clipboards, they were muttering to each other, eyes sliding sidelong, rechecking their notes, everything and anything to make it look as though they really knew what they were doing. This competition was a shop window for the high-class cuisine on offer. Bath depended heavily on foreign tourists visiting the Roman Baths, the Pump Rooms and the elegant crescents and squares. Businesses, especially those in the hospitality trade, knew the negative power of bad press on visitor numbers.

  If a show had to be put on, Casper was the one to do it. It was Casper who had instigated the police ‘thingy’ her mother referred to, which had turned out to be more than just liaison. She’d actually got involved in a criminal case and been instrumental in solving it. Most of the liaison side of things happened between her and Detective Inspector Steve Doherty, and those liaisons weren’t entirely professional. There was definitely an undercurrent burning between them. It was just a matter of time before they lit the fuse.

  Running a hotel was not the glamorous job it was cracked up to be; all grateful clients and huge tips, celebrity guests and champagne lifestyle. Routine was the best way to describe it. Order meat on a Monday, order vegetables on a Tuesday, see the wine rep on a Wednesday … and in between lay tables, fold napkins and deal with guests who’d sampled too much Highland malt.

  She’d been hankering after a secondary career for a while. Her duties as Crime Liaison Officer helped alleviate her humdrum existence. So did Steve Doherty.

  The three judges stopped at each table, tasted, and muttered amongst themselves, nodding like donkeys dining at the same manger. Coming to an agreement, they then jotted their deliberations on to their clipboards.

  Not once did their focus drift from the food, their clipboards or each other. All the dishes were based around chicken; the rest of the ingredients were up to each individual chef. All that mattered to the judges was the taste and presentation of the dish. Eyes, nose and mouth; sight, smell and taste. The judges nibbled, poked and prodded the meat, dismembered the displays, sipped at the sauces using nothing bigger than a teaspoon.

  At last their decision was made. Filing one after the other through the crowd of hotel owners, food journalists and hungry hordes from the outside world, they made their way to a raised platform. On normal weekdays this was where a string trio played Handel for the diners sipping tea and munching cream buns. Today there wasn’t a cream bun in sight – perish the thought!

  Honey said a silent prayer and crossed her fingers. She glanced over to a smirking Stella Broadbent and crossed her legs. Something bad was about to happen. She could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

  Naturally, Casper was the spokesman. Craning his long neck to reach the microphone, he resembled a giraffe about to devour a large, black plum.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’

  His voice was crystal clear, ringing across the rococo ceiling and ricocheting off the high arched windows. His piercing gaze brought the gathering to attention.

  ‘The best chefs in Bath were given the task of producing a dish using chicken as its main component. They were allowed to choose the rest of the ingredients themselves …’

  Honey looked at Smudger. His eyes were fixed on Casper, almost daring him not to pick him. Usually his complexion was pink; it was presently paler than super-refined white flour.

  Setting down her wineglass, Honey stuffed her fingers in her ears and closed her eyes. What would it be? Celebration or commiseration?

  Applause filtered through her fingers. She opened her eyes to see the top of a white toque bobbing up to the platform. Her heart sank.

  Not Smudger. Smudger was about five feet ten. If he’d won she would have seen his blushing complexion and his corn-coloured hair over the crowd.

  A beaming Oliver Stafford, five feet seven, possibly five eight in his white kitchen clogs, stepped up on to the stage, accepted his prize and blew kisses at the audience.

  ‘The best man won,’ he shouted.

  Applause erupted. Oliver Stafford played to the crowd, shaking men’s hands, kissing those of women he didn’t know, the cheeks of those he did. His eyes seemed to be everywhere. They settled on her. Again that wink, the obvious appraisal and the salacious smile. The meaning was obvious. I’m game if you are.

  Honey looked away to where Smudger was standing clapping disconsolately, the blue second prize rosette pinned to his chest. If looks could have killed, and cooked the corpse, Oliver Stafford would have been stewed steak there and then.

  There was no time to lose.

  Turning her back on events, she pushed her way through the crowd. ‘Congratulations. You did very well.’

  God, that sounded lame! Honey rethought her strategy. ‘I think you’re due a bonus.’

  Smudger’s scowl returned with a vengeance. ‘I think that bugger’s due a kick in the …’

  ‘Quick,’ she said, as though she hadn’t heard. ‘We’ve got to get to Abbey Green and get the best spot.’

  ‘Clint said he’d do that.’

  His voice lacked interest. His eyes were still fixed on Oliver.

  Clint, real name Rodney Eastwood, was their casual washer-up, odd-jobber, and general help. He had indeed promised to grab a pitch and start setting things up. Smudger needed to occupy himself with something other than stamping on Oliver Stafford’s head.

  ‘But you need to be there to oversee things.’ An even worse excuse.

  Smudger didn’t budge.

  Honey looked to where he was looking. A beaming Oliver Stafford was taking a photo call, holding his silver cup above his head while wedged between two scantily clad blondes.

  ‘Come on. No time to lose.’

  Honey began packing things up, the knives first. They were the most dangerous. A vision of Smudger and the egg whisk flashed into her mind. She found room for that in with the knives.

  ‘Over here, over here.’

  Oliver, the blondes, and a bevy of photographers barged through the crowd to the row of steel tables.

  ‘Behind the table, please chef,’ ordered one of the photographers.

  Before taking up position, Oliver kissed one blonde then the other and gave each a quick squeeze. ‘Won’t be long, darlings. Keep it all hot for me won’t you.’

  Honey grabbed Smudger’s arm. Too late. Stafford was shorter than Smudger. Smudger had hold of him by the ears.

  ‘Let go of me.’

  Some of the photographers carried on clicking.

  Casper pushed through the crowd to where Honey was standing. ‘Please control your chef, madam! How dare he grasp that man’s extremities!’

  ‘Smudger. Let go of his ears!’

  Smudger growled. ‘He should thank his lucky stars it’s only his ears!’

  There was uproar all round and through it all the paparazzi kept snapping. Muttering various reasons why he shouldn’t disconnect Stafford’s ears from his head, she tugged at Smudger’s arm. Angry eyes glared above strawberry pink cheeks – though they weren’t nearly as red as the other chef’s ears. There were only inches between their faces.

  ‘I know what you did, Stafford, and I’ll get you for it. Hear what I say, I’ll get you for it.’

  Finally he let go.

  ‘He’s bloody mad,’ said Stafford, vigorously rubbing at his bright red ears. ‘You’re mad, Smith. Right bloody mad!’

  Up until Stafford had opened his mouth, Smudger had been responding to her urgings to get out. Now he lunged again, fists ready to do some damage to the other chef’s face.

  Honey flung herself forward, arms out in rugby tackle mode. Graceful it was not, though she mus
t have shown some skill judging by the applause from the crowd. Her love for banoffee pie had a lot to answer for, but at least it meant she was carrying enough weight to pull it off, she thought ruefully. Honey certainly felt less than graceful hanging on to Smudger’s waist, cheek resting against his buttock. Legs dragging behind her, Honey clung on for all she was worth, even after she lost both her shoes in the melee.

  ‘Come on, Smudge!’ she muttered against a mouthful of starched cotton chef’s jacket.

  He looked down over his shoulder at her and frowned. ‘Blimey, it’s like being tackled by a sack of potatoes.’

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure.’

  She still didn’t let go. She daren’t.

  ‘What about our pots and stuff?’ he said, his eyes still following Oliver Stafford whose over-inflated ego was being smoothed by his boss. Bling Broadbent’s peachy complexion glowed with inner light as she tossed a contemptuous sneer in Honey’s direction.

  ‘My, my. Taking defeat lying down and with your legs open. Well that’s par for the course from what I hear.’

  Honey struggled to her feet. Now it was her turn to lunge.

  ‘You bitch …’

  Now it was Smudger’s turn to hold her back.

  Stafford made a flamboyant gesture of dismissal. ‘Bad chefs make bad losers!’

  Honey felt her skin tightening. She looked hastily around her. She’d put the knives away, but what about the steak mallet? A whack in the middle of the forehead and – hey presto! No more pesto from that chef!

  Smudger was frighteningly calm, the kind of silent calmness that happens before a storm. She had to get him outside before the storm broke and he flattened Stafford’s nose. She grabbed his arm. ‘Come on, Smudge. Let’s get going.’

  She tried pushing him. He was like a rock, totally immovable. He pointed an accusing finger at the other chef. His voice was steady. ‘That prize was mine. You robbed me, Stafford. I know bloody well you did. But I’ll get you; mark my words if I don’t!’

  Chapter Two

  Emma Pearce stifled a yawn. She’d been on reception duty at the Beau Brummell since three that afternoon. It was now close to 11 p.m. but tonight she’d had to stay.

  Oliver Stafford, the hotel’s head chef, had emerged victorious over a number of other excellent chefs in today’s competition and celebrations were still going on. The sound of laughter, popping champagne corks and the reassuring clink of glasses as toast after toast was proposed filtered from the lounge bar. If past performances were anything to go by, they’d still be at it in the early hours.

  Sighing and stifling another yawn, she eased her right foot out of her sensible shoe and rubbed it against her ankle. Her feet were killing her. The night porter was late but would be here soon. She couldn’t wait. There was no point in asking Mrs Broadbent if someone could stand in for her. Mrs Broadbent expected her staff to stay until relieved – like tired, loyal troops holding an important bridgehead against the enemy.

  A blast of air came in as the main reception doors swished open.

  Emma prepared to plaster on a smile before raising her head and welcoming the late-returning guest. Instead her jaw dropped.

  Well over six feet, the man towered over her. His teeth were sparkling white. His skin a dark brown. It was the way he was dressed that made her jaw drop.

  ‘Good evening, Miss. I have come to see my wife and claim my half of this hotel.’ Adopting a wide grin, he tilted back his head and looked around. ‘It is very nice, yes?’

  Emma tried to retract her gaping jaw. She couldn’t possibly say a single word until she did. Was she dreaming? She blinked hoping that if she was she’d wake up at home in bed and quickly fall asleep again. It wasn’t just that the man was exceptionally tall. It was the way he was dressed – similar to that Eddie Murphy film about an African chief searching for a bride in New York. What was it called? She couldn’t think of it. She was too busy taking in the animal skins, the finely dreadlocked hair and the myriad white and yellow coral beads in the huge collar he wore around his neck.

  Suddenly it came to her. ʻOh. Youʼre a kissogram! Sorry. I wasnʼt expecting …ʼ

  ‘No. Not kissogram. I am the real thing. You see my tribal outfit? It is Masai. Do you like my spear?’

  Emma’s eyes widened, giving the spear a brief glance as she tried to regain her voice. ‘I …’

  Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  ‘So where is she?’ asked the man, his dreadlocks whipping around his head as he looked this way and that. ‘Where is my bride, Stella Broadbent Jones?’

  Emma swallowed. ‘Jones?’

  ‘Yes. My name. Obadiah Jones. We met on safari in the Masai Mara last summer and we married there. My wife should take my name. Names times two are good, yes?’

  Emma presumed he was referring to the amalgamation of Mrs Broadbent’s name with his own. ‘Uh … yes.’

  A sudden explosion of laughter came from the bar. The tall brown lamppost of a man turned his head in that direction. ‘She is there, yes?’ he said.

  Emma nodded, her throat too constricted by surprise to say anything. If this was a wind-up, it was a good one. She giggled. If it was real – well, how embarrassing could you get?

  He strode across to the wide double doors leading into the bar. At the same time a Japanese couple came through the front door. They’d been chattering away about the play they’d just seen at the Theatre Royal. Their chattering and their progress to the reception desk came to an abrupt end. They stared. So did Emma. She didn’t even flash them her welcoming smile.

  Mrs Broadbent was not the best boss she’d ever had. Fuelled with half a dozen pink gins, she could either be downright nasty or totally oblivious to what she was doing. The possibility that she’d got so tanked up that she’d married an African warrior would certainly dent her awesome arrogance.

  Ignoring the Japanese guests, Emma half-skipped, half-ran to keep up with him.

  The moment he entered the bar all sound ceased – except for the sound of the odd wine glass hitting the ground.

  All eyes turned in his direction.

  Stella Broadbent took another swift gulp before focusing her attention. At first she looked puzzled, and then she began to laugh. ‘OK, who booked the kissogram? Come on. Was it you, Oliver?’

  Though a smile played around his lips, Oliver Stafford’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t one for making snap appraisals. ‘Not me,’ he said and took the cork out of another bottle.

  The tall warrior strode up to Stella.

  ‘My,’ she said, looking him up and down and playfully stroking his arm. ‘You’re a bit skinny, but the muscles are in the right place.’

  Titters of amusement ran through the onlookers.

  ‘Wives should not talk to their masters like that,’ he said, grim of expression as he looked down into Stella’s face. He held his arms wide and addressed the onlookers. ‘We met on safari last year and married at a beautiful watering hole. I now claim my wife and half of this very nice hotel.’

  There was still some laughter, but not everyone. Stella was livid.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this! You’ve been put up to this by the same person who daubed graffiti on the front wall and damaged our guests’ cars. Who put you up to it? Go on! Tell me!’

  The man named Obadiah looked hurt. He shook his head dolefully. ‘I should have known when you drank from so many bottles that you would deny me what is mine. But I will not argue. I do not want a woman who lies with me then drinks and forgets me. It is not good.’

  The tittering of amusement veered towards disbelief. Was this an entertaining moment, or was this man for real? The latter view seemed to be gaining ground.

  Stella Broadbent seemed to grow small; all head and high-heeled shoes, face puce and eyes like saucers. Then she inflated, and then exploded.

  ‘Get out! Get out! Get OUT!’

  There was pandemonium. People shouting, laughing; some shouting for the police to be called, others laughing and ord
ering more drinks.

  The burly security man, employed to deter the graffiti artist, came rushing in.

  ‘That man,’ Stella shouted, by now surrounded by friends and guests. ‘Get him out!’

  Shouted at and jostled from all sides, the security man lost his cap. In his quest to retrieve it from the floor before it was squashed flatter, his hand was trodden on. By the time he was upright, the gangly man he’d been called to throw out was gone.

  ‘This way.’

  Feeling somehow responsible for the tall man, Emma got him outside. The sound of a police siren panicked them both. She shoved him into her car, a rusty old Toyota that she never bothered to lock.

  ‘Stay there till it’s over.’

  Snuggled down out of sight on the back seat, the tall man soon fell asleep, satisfied with a job well done. He didn’t know what time it was when he awoke, only that his limbs were stiff from being folded up like a seaside deckchair. Opening the door to stretch his long legs, he peered cautiously around him. Nothing. Few lights were burning in the hotel.

  Everything was in order, he decided as he rubbed his aching back, except …

  His right hand was empty.

  ‘Shit! Where’s my bloody spear?’ He also decided that he needed the bathroom. Presuming the door to Reception would now be locked and bolted, he made his way round the back and tried that one. It opened.

  The smell of cooking had permeated the very fabric of the building. The tall man wrinkled his nose. With luck this passageway led into the main building. Whatever the case, he had to find his spear.

  He would have gone on through but heard voices. He pressed his ear against the kitchen door. People were arguing; a man and a woman.

  He backed out. They might hear him. He turned and left. Outside he skirted the building heading for the front doors. On his way he saw the spear lying on the ground, picked it up. Time to go.

  Stella was being a cow, but Oliver was used to it. He knew she wouldn’t take the news well, but didn’t care.

  ‘After all I’ve done for you,’ she screamed, her eyes blazing.

  Before she knew it, her chin was grasped by his fingers.