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

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘Of course I should be here,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve watched NYPD Blue. And The Sweeney. I know your sort, Doherty, and I won’t have my family being intimidated!’

  Doherty adopted his very, very good cop stance. ‘Look, ma’am, all I want to do is ask Lindsey a few questions about the murder victim.’

  ‘Murder? Who got murdered? And don’t call me ma’am,’ Gloria added, fixing him with a warning frown.

  Honey went ahead and explained.

  ‘A chef’s been murdered. The one who beat Smudger in the competition yesterday.’

  ‘Is that so! I expect he was very good indeed to have beat Smudger.’

  Honey interjected without thinking. ‘Don’t let Smudger hear you say that. You know how temperamental he can be …’

  She groaned. The words had come tumbling out before she could stop them.

  She leaned close to Steve and whispered in his ear. ‘Can you forget I said that if I’m very nice to you later?’

  Steve sighed, closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. ‘Your attempt at bribery is noted, though I’m too dog tired to write it down. In which case, can you make the being nice after I’ve had an afternoon nap? In the meantime, a cup of coffee would be good – black with plenty of sugar.’

  Honey would have sympathised if Lindsey hadn’t been involved. She wanted this over and done with. ‘Sod the coffee. You’re supposed to be taking a statement.’

  He yawned. ‘Have pity, Honey. I’ve been on duty all night.’

  ‘I insist you take my daughter’s statement.’

  The pad and pen he’d brought with him was in danger of sliding out of his lap. He clutched at it with aching fingers before it escaped. ‘You do it,’ he said, folded his arms and closed his eyes.

  Gloria phoned for coffee then sat herself back down between her daughter and the policeman. She picked up the pen and pad.

  ‘Right. Let’s start at the beginning,’ she said brandishing the pen. ‘What made you get involved with this jerk in the first place?’

  Lindsey glanced at her grandmother, but spoke directly to her mother. ‘As I said, he told me he was something of an amateur historian and you know how I am with history.’

  Honey thought of all the times Lindsey had gone to lectures on the Tudors and concerts of medieval chamber music when her peer group were all getting legless and laid in some nightclub or other.

  She said, somewhat disparagingly, ‘I’m curious to know his chat-up line; what was it? Come and see the size of my codpiece?’

  ‘Costume matters,’ said Honey’s mother. ‘I get really turned on by costume dramas; did you ever see that Jane Austen adaptation when Colin Firth comes out of the water all dripping wet with his trousers sticking to his loins? My, you could see everything! And then Sean Bean playing Sharpe on TV. Fabulous. Especially from the rear, the best bum I’ve ever seen …’

  Honey found her patience failing. ‘Mother!’

  ‘Am I digressing?’

  ‘Worse; you’re fantasising.’

  After checking Doherty’s half grin, she turned back to Lindsey. ‘Right. Let’s start from the beginning. You didn’t know he was married.’

  ‘No. I didn’t want to get involved with him, but he was such a charmer. And how many men do you know who are interested in history?’

  Honey thought. ‘John Rees. The guy who owns the bookshop in Rifleman’s Way.’

  ‘He’s ancient!’

  ‘He’s two years older than me,’ growled Honey through gritted teeth.

  ‘I know quite a lot of men who are interested in history,’ said Gloria. That most ungrandmotherly-looking grandmother had a faraway look in her eyes all of a sudden.

  Honey groaned. This was getting them nowhere. ‘Mother, the men you know are part of history.’

  Her mother drew air up her nose with all the ferocity of a psychotic vacuum cleaner. ‘Hannah, I shall leave if you insult me.’

  Recognising an altogether vitriolic tone in the way her mother had pronounced her given name, Honey apologised. She attempted to get her thoughts in some kind of professional order – professional as in Honey Driver, super sleuth, not Honey Driver, hotel owner.

  ‘Sorry. Lindsey, what Steve would have asked, if he hadn’t been so rudely interrupted, was where were you last night? Say between the hours of eleven and midnight?’ She held her breath as she awaited the answer.

  The moment Lindsey smiled Honey knew she was in for a stark revelation. Why could teenagers sometimes make you feel as though you were younger than them – or worse – about to become a permanent resident in an old folks’ home?

  ‘Mother. I was here. You were out gallivanting with Smudger and I was holding the fort. Mary Jane can vouch for me. She was reading the Tarot cards.’

  Mary Jane’s reason for making the Green River Hotel her permanent residence was the fact that one of her ancestors, Sir Cedric Dixon, also happened to frequent the place. He’d been dead for nigh on four centuries but didn’t seem to know it yet. Perhaps he might have done if Mary Jane would stop conjuring him up at the slightest opportunity.

  ‘Well that’s good enough for me,’ said Gloria, getting to her feet. ‘Mary Jane may be a little eccentric, but she always tells the truth.’

  To Honey’s ears that sounded a bit of a contradiction, but she paid it no mind. Lindsey’s revelation had left her feeling let down. She couldn’t stop the anger. She couldn’t face the disappointment of not knowing, not being told. This sort of thing happened to other people’s daughters. Not hers. Not her beloved Lindsey.

  Steve chose that moment for his head to fall against her shoulder. He was sound asleep.

  The women looked at him. Lindsey carried on. ‘By the way, Casper phoned.’

  ‘Oh! The word’s got round.’

  ‘He asked you to call in when you’re passing.’

  Honey bit her lip. Casper would want to know the details of the murder.

  She cupped Steve’s face in her hands and laid his head back as she got to her feet. ‘I’d better get round there.’

  ‘What about him?’ Lindsey jerked her chin at the sleeping policeman.

  Honey thought about it. ‘He’s quiet enough.’ She took the notebook and pen from her mother and placed it back in his lap. ‘Wake him up when he starts snoring.’

  ‘Are you going to see Casper?’

  ‘Yes. And then I’m off to ask Bling Broadbent a few questions. That cow! Do you know her car park was chocca last night? Do you know that bloody cow actually employs a security guard to oversee her bloody car park?’

  Lindsey smiled ruefully. ‘Now, now, Mother. Remember to play nicely.’

  ‘I’ll play rough if I have to, and talking of rough …’ She kissed Steve gently on the forehead. His jaw dropped open and a resounding snore erupted from his open mouth.

  ‘Shall I wake him up?’ asked Lindsey.

  Her mother shook her head. ‘Not yet. Give me a head start. Then do it.’

  Chapter Six

  On her way to the underground garage where she’d parked her car, Honey conjured up how best to put Bling Broadbent in her place. Arresting her on suspicion of murdering her own chef would be good. The delicious vision of wiping that supercilious smile from Stella’s scarlet lips would not go away. A citizen’s arrest! Unfortunately she had no evidence to support that particular theory, except that she’d heard that Stella was a middle-aged nymphomaniac. Perhaps she’d had the hots for Stafford. Jealousy was always a good motive for murder.

  As she folded her legs into her car she daydreamed that Smudger had won the B.I.T.E. competition. Now that would have sent the woman heading for cover! Stella was one of those people who had to be like the Christmas fairy, always on top of the tree looking down at everyone else.

  Her reverie was interrupted by yet another call from Casper.

  ‘I need you here.’ He spoke low, deep and slow, the last word as drawn out as the string on a bow.

  ‘I’ll be right there as soon as I’ve spoken to
Bling … I’m sorry, Stella Broadbent.’

  ‘Here. Now!’

  There was something pleading in his voice. There was the usual class and confidence, too, but today there was also something else. Puzzlement? Confusion?

  Her eyes caught sight of a notice board and her intention of calling on Stella Broadbent flew out of the open car window. Bonhams, were holding an auction of collectables at their premises in Little King Street. Clothes were included.

  She spoke into her phone. ‘Casper, I won’t be long.’

  ‘Honey? Honey?’

  A car pulled off the single yellow lines in Queen Square and she pulled into the space, turned off the engine and locked up. With a spring in her step, she dodged the traffic to the other side of the road and into Bonhams.

  ‘More voluptuous underwear, hen?’ asked the Scottish clerk behind the counter. His smirk of approval was lost within the confines of a bright ginger beard.

  The last time she’d been in Bonhams, Jollys as it had been, she’d purchased a particularly large pair of undergarments, said to have been worn by Queen Victoria. Alistair remembered the purchase. He knew what items interested her. He knew what everyone collected.

  She paid for a catalogue.

  ‘Anything interesting?’ she asked as she thumbed through the shiny pages. If there was anything, the employees of the company would have spotted it. Experience equals grandstand knowledge.

  ‘I did see a very nice pair of garters. Fashioned from French lace and festooned with ribbons in a particularly fetching strawberry shade.’ He spoke slowly and eloquently. As always, the richness of his Scottish accent turned the verbal equivalent of dry toast into fruit-filled Genoa cake.

  ‘You sound as though they quite took your fancy.’

  Standing well over six feet, Alistair smiled through his thick red beard. ‘Not for me, hen. I would have preferred blue myself – to match my eyes you understand.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  He clapped his hands over his chest. ‘A salmon pink Berlei bra from the fifties.’ He used his finger to describe it. ‘Sewn round and round, and round and round, into a conical shape. Just like the ones Madonna used to wear at the height of her career. Only bigger. Much bigger.’

  Her phone rang again as she headed into the auction room. Bidding had already started. She didn’t have time for a proper look round so would have to trust Alistair’s judgement. The garters came first. Bidding started at twenty pounds, a ludicrous amount for apparel never likely to be seen.

  Bidding climbed steadily. There was a middling crowd. If she craned her neck she’d see who she was bidding against. But she wouldn’t. Bidding called for deep concentration. All that mattered was getting what you came for.

  She waited until the bidding reached thirty-five before going in at forty.

  ‘Forty. Do I see forty-five? Forty-five anywhere? Now come on. These were said to have been worn by a dancer at the Windmill Theatre in London. During the war it boasted that it never closed. Got to be worth more than forty, surely?’

  The auctioneer’s eyes scoured the room for a potential punter. No one stepped in. She smiled. The garters were hers.

  ‘Going once, going twice … Fifty, madam? Fifty pounds. A fresh bidder at fifty pounds.’

  Honey bid fifty-five. The other party bid sixty. Honey bid sixty-five. Her rival bid seventy.

  Seventy? For a pair of faded garters?

  Despite the condition of the intriguing items, she might have pushed the bidding further if her phone hadn’t rung again.

  ‘I need you here right now!’

  Casper!

  ‘Casper, there’s just one more lot …’

  ‘Honey. I have a man here who I think you should speak to. Remember, my dear, you’re the one liaising with the police on behalf of the Hotels Association. Do I have to remind you of the benefits?’

  Perks came with the job. She got priority bookings via the committee, recompense for involving herself in tourist related crime. Honey sighed.

  ‘I’ll be right there.’

  So much for the garters. There was still hope for the salmon pink brassiere with conical stitching.

  Alistair had come out from behind his counter and was standing at the back of the room. She knew he would be bidding on behalf of people who for whatever reason couldn’t be there. It was a fair bet none of them were involved in a murder investigation.

  She handed him her bidding card. ‘Last bid for lot 132. Go up to fifty for the Victorian christening dress and ten pounds for the satin corset.’

  ‘Och! You couldn’t resist the brazier could you, hen.’ His lips grinned. His eyes remained fixed on the auctioneer.

  Getting his meaning (brazier being his pronunciation of brassiere), Honey responded. ‘No, I couldn’t. Aren’t you going to ask me if I’ll be wearing it?’

  ‘Oh, no. You won’t be doing that, hen. Not unless your breasts are considerably more than an honest man’s handful. Though you could use them as a bowling ball carrier …’

  Her eyes widened. ‘That big?’

  He nodded. ‘What the Germans would call a bustenhalter.’

  Enough was enough. ‘Don’t bother.’ She grabbed the ticket from the bunch he was clutching and tore it into shreds.

  ‘See you, hen,’ said Alistair, his eyes still fixed on the auctioneer and his head nodding in time with the bids.

  Casper’s hotel, La Reine Rouge, was a stone’s throw from Pulteney Weir and a pleasant walk from Bonhams Auction Rooms, just off Queen Square.

  Honey darted between people aiming digital cameras and around a party of Dutch students, barely missing being run down by a hire car driving on the wrong side of the road. The driver wound his window down.

  ‘Excuse me, can you tell me where the Pump Rooms are?’

  She pointed round into Quiet Street. ‘That way, but you’ll have …’ Too late. The window was wound up. The last she saw was the car mounting the pavement barring its access to Quiet Street. Horns were blowing. People were shouting. Quiet Street was far from quiet.

  Never mind. The air was balmy, summer was here and everyone was out enjoying themselves.

  Neville, Casper’s head receptionist, was on duty behind the highly polished mahogany desk. Honey glanced at her watch as a brass-faced grandfather clock struck eleven. So did the wall clocks lining the stairs to the upper floors. Casper collected clocks.

  Neville was resplendent in a red silk waistcoat embroidered with birds of paradise. Regency style was de rigueur at La Reine Rouge, as it suited the ambience of the elegant building. The tourists loved it.

  He never gave her chance to say good morning. ‘You think this is a flamboyant outfit,’ he said, pointing at his waistcoat and tight breeches. ‘Wait till you see what’s downstairs.’

  The phone rang and he picked it up. He plastered his hand over his mouth before attempting to answer the phone and pointed to the stairs leading down to Casper’s office.

  Intrigued, Honey made her way down, knocking before entering the subterranean suite that served as offices.

  The first thing she saw on entering was Casper’s pale complexion.

  ‘My goodness. You look as though you’d seen …’

  Casper’s visitor rose from his chair.

  Honey’s jaw dropped. Her head tilted back to accommodate the man’s huge height. Six feet six at least. And black. And beaded. And dressed in … animal skins? He was also carrying what looked like a spear. An assegai? His hair was plaited or matted or … something. Now what was he? Yes, that was it. She was looking at an honest-to-goodness Masai warrior. In Bath. A tourist?

  She heard Casper clearing his throat. He probably couldn’t believe it himself.

  ‘This gentleman tells me he has important information regarding the murder of Oliver Stafford.’

  Honey nodded slowly while she tried to find her voice. Now it was her turn to clear her throat.

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Call me Obadiah Jones,’ said the voic
e from on high. He offered her a long, slender hand as he flashed his uncommonly white teeth.

  ‘Right!’

  She found her voice in time to say hello and pleased to meet you without sounding too stupid.

  ‘Do you think we can sit down,’ she said, her neck already aching from having to adopt such an acute angle.

  ‘Certainly.’

  His accent was negligible, which was not what she’d expected.

  ‘And this evidence … Obadiah … can you tell me exactly what it is?’

  The multi-coloured beads festooned around his neck jangled when he nodded. ‘Most certainly. I heard my wife arguing with Mr Stafford. She was calling him many rude names and threatening to destroy him if he didn’t continue to “play ballˮ.’

  Honey stared. She looked at Casper for help. He looked just as shocked as she felt. Bath might welcome tourists from all over the world, but Masai Warriors were definitely a bit thin on the ground.

  ‘And your wife is …?’

  ‘Stella. The story is that she was on safari and I was her tour guide around the Masai Mara. We married in Africa, but she pretends that it never occurred. I followed her back here to claim my rights. She said she was not herself at the time we married so it doesn’t count.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘Not so wonderful. I was paid to do it.’

  ‘That figures.’

  ‘But I overheard this argument.’

  ‘He’s given me the details,’ said Casper, a perplexed look sullying his usually calm expression. He related a few details.

  ‘I can’t go to the police about it. You see, I shouldn’t be here. My work permit’s run out.’

  The truth was obvious. He wasn’t a real Masai warrior, just a very tall man dressed up to look like one.

  Honey asked the obvious question. ‘Who paid you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I cannot divulge my client’s particulars. It’s private.’

  Honey took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was a serious business. Murder was involved, plus the reward of substantial bed occupancy at the Green River Hotel for taking on the job in the first place. ‘And you definitely heard her threaten Mr Stafford?’