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

by Goodhind, Jean G

  Steve held his arm across, roughly at the same height as the police incident tape. ‘You can’t go in. None of us can until this lot have done their thing.’

  On the other side the Scene of Crimes people and forensic were doing their thing. The Medical Examiner was first to emerge. It was his job to formally state that the victim was dead, though how anyone could not be dead after roasting on gas mark 7 would be a miracle.

  He spoke directly to Steve.

  ‘Most definitely dead. Blow to the back of the head. Can’t say when, but can say when his head began to cook. He was already dead when the oven came on.’

  Honey felt her stomach heaving. How could anyone say that without throwing up?

  She’d never get used to this kind of thing. Finding a perpetrator was one thing. Actually seeing the dead was something else. It was the puzzle that intrigued her. The murdered only made her sick and also a little sad.

  Steve looked perplexed.

  The Medical Examiner went into detail. ‘The oven’s got a timer on it. The commis chef says that it’s always set to turn on automatically for five o’clock in the morning. They make their own bread you see.’

  The thought of bread and the smell of roasting meat on an empty stomach was too much. Honey was vaguely aware of the floor coming up to meet her nose. She was also vaguely aware of being hurried along the corridor.

  ‘He got hit on the back of the head and fell forward onto a shelf,’ Steve explained once she’d come round and vowed never to eat pork ever again. She was sitting in a fashionably minimalist club chair, Steve’s arm hovering protectively around her.

  As her eyes began to focus, they alighted on a slim blonde with an orange suntan and a skirt that showed more than it covered. She was sobbing into a man-size handkerchief – or it could have been a napkin. Honey caught herself hoping that the Samuel Pepys had a good laundry service.

  Steve saw where she was looking. ‘That’s Sandy Brown, Brian Brodie’s girlfriend.’

  Honey recalled her conversation with Richard Carmelli, the commis chef at the Beau Brummell, but couldn’t remember the details too clearly.

  ‘Not his wife?’ Her voice sounded hollow as though she were speaking from the bottom of a rabbit hole.

  His smile kind of floated in and out of her vision as he shook his head. Her eyelids felt heavy.

  She sighed. ‘I feel like going to bed.’

  His smile smothered his face. He whispered in her ear, ‘Just name the time and the place.’

  She threw him a you should be so lucky kind of smile designed to put on the brakes, but her hormones were going full gallop and won the day. ‘I don’t suppose I’d kick you out,’ she said as an afterthought. He liked that. She could tell by the way his fingers brushed against the side of her breast. And that smile. Christ, how could he smile with all this going on? That poor chef. Even at his most irritating she had never considered roasting Smudger in his own oven.

  ‘Come on.’ Steve sounded concerned.

  She made a firm effort not to fall against him as he helped her to her feet. ‘I’ll be OK.’ He looked a bit put out when she waved him away, but her attention was firmly fixed on the sobbing girl.

  The male members of the team investigating the murder scene were also paying attention to the delectable Sandy Brown. The girl’s skirt stretched like a black bandage across her willowy thighs. A white cotton gusset winked with each strangled sob and the crossing and re-crossing of her mile-long legs. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder white top too tight to be decent. No bra. Her nipples were like dark eyes peering through a fog. She was about twenty.

  Sandy was sitting at one end of a wickerwork sofa. The wickerwork was bronze, the cushions beige and sprinkled with gold thread. Very tasteful. And very expensive, Honey guessed. She fingered the chair arm and the cushion before sitting down and asked if it was designer.

  ‘It’s Fiona Davenport,’ said Sandy, referring to the trendy sofa almost as though it were a star of stage, screen and television.

  Honey made a face. ‘Wow. He must have been loaded.’

  ‘Brian liked nice things.’

  It occurred to Honey to ask in more detail how Brian Brodie could have afforded the services of an interior designer whose efforts got featured in Country Living and House Beautiful magazines.

  ‘The restaurant must have been doing extremely well.’

  The sobs had turned to a well-rehearsed simper. ‘The best in Bath. He did ever so well.’

  But not well enough, thought Honey in response to the defensiveness in the girl’s voice. Her eyes flitted over the restaurant, mentally counting the number of couverts and coming out at around forty. Forty at around forty pounds per head? One hundred pounds per head? And how often was the restaurant full? Generally it was safe to base the turnover rate at around twenty-five per cent capacity. But the hospitality industry was notoriously optimistic.

  Sandy blew her nose loudly. Honey winced. Just as she’d guessed, the large handkerchief turned out to be a table napkin. Not hygienic, but forgivable in the circumstances …

  ‘Was Brian ever married?’

  ‘He used to be.’

  ‘So how long had you two been together?’

  ‘Two weeks.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘His wife left him two years ago,’ sniffed the girl, pre-empting Honey’s next question.

  ‘And you moved in with him?’

  The girl pulled a face. ‘Not straight away. Not until his other girlfriend moved out.’

  Honey sized her up. She instinctively knew that this was not the girlfriend Oliver Stafford had been having an affair with. This was eye candy. Not even that. More like a cuddly toy, something silent and cute to cuddle up to.

  ‘Would you know who’d want to kill him?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘He was a lovely man.’

  Doherty threw Honey a quick nod of understanding. There was nothing this girl could say to assist them in their enquiries. Honey nodded back. Steve turned to the gathered professionals.

  ‘Anyone available to take this girl home?’

  A host of hot-blooded Scene of Crime Officers, plus two paramedics who’d been called out and had stopped for coffee, rushed forward like a human tsunami. The paramedics won.

  ‘You need a lie down, love.’

  They steered her towards the waiting ambulance.

  Honey and everyone there looked on. ‘I suppose that’s what they call care in the community,’ Honey remarked to Steve.

  He grinned and passed her a glass of cold water poured from a blue glass bottle. He also ordered her to stay put while he oversaw the removal of the corpse and the reintroduction of his wayward officers to their duties.

  Honey lay her head back, closed her eyes and gathered her thoughts. Two chefs dead. Both had taken part in the same competition. One of them had won so there was no case of jealousy to answer here. So why these two chefs? Perhaps there was going to be another competition and one chef was thinning out the opposition beforehand. Please don’t let it be Smudger.

  Her thinking was disrupted.

  The uniformed police guarding the door were arguing with two big pieces of furniture that had sprouted heads, arms and possibly even legs. She couldn’t quite see from the laid-back angle, so she jerked herself upright in order to see more clearly.

  The police were telling the walking wardrobes that they couldn’t come in. The wardrobes were talking right back, saying they had every right to come in and collect their property.

  Closing her eyes, she resumed the reclining position. It was none of her business. She had no rights getting involved; and then one of them mentioned the magic words.

  ‘It’s our salamander and the payments are in arrears.’

  He did ever so well.

  Honey shot up from her seat in two seconds flat and charged over to the new arrivals. Clearly Sandy Brown knew nothing.

  ‘I’d like a word with you guys.’

  The big guys turned their
ugly mugs in her direction. So did the boys in blue.

  ‘Steve Doherty will OK it,’ she said to the latter.

  The two walking wardrobes, arms bursting from the sleeves of their coal black T-shirts, ambled into the restaurant. They looked her up and down.

  ‘I’m working with the police,’ she said. ‘There’s been a murder.’

  If their faces could have paled they would have. Instead their chins retracted into their bulging necks. ‘That’s nothing to do with us,’ one of them said.

  ‘So you won’t mind answering a few questions.’

  She studied them as they thought it through. They’d looked almost identical when viewed at a distance. Up front there were subtle differences. One had a cauliflower ear and the other had a broken nose.

  Squashed-Ear exchanged a look with Broken-Nose before proclaiming their decision. ‘S’pose not.’

  ‘How much did Brodie owe you?’

  Broken-Nose adopted an indignant look. ‘Not enough to kill for. We don’t do things like that. We just repossess.’

  ‘Yeah, repossess,’ echoed his partner.

  ‘We want the salamander.’

  ‘Yeah. The salamander.’

  They both spoke as though their tongues were too big for their mouths. And they were very big guys, almost round. Tweedle Dee and his brother Tweedle Dum.

  ‘Do you know what a salamander is?’ Honey asked.

  They looked at each other before one of them answered. ‘It’s something in the kitchen.’

  ‘A grill,’ she said. ‘Wait here. I’ll check that the police are finished.’

  Luckily for the repo men, the salamander – chef terminology for a large wall-mounted grill – was in a separate part of the kitchen that could be entered through another door, so they wouldn’t be contaminating the crime scene. After disconnecting the gas, they unbolted it and heaved it onto their shoulders.

  ‘Why do I think I should be humming the funeral march?’ Honey muttered as she watched them progress sedately out of the door.

  One of Doherty’s team heard her. ‘Sorry. Did you say something?’

  ‘Tell Steve I have to go, but I’ll be seeing him.’

  Despite him being busy, Honey hoped that Steve would call and ask her out tonight. Depending on staffing levels, the dishwasher and whether she could find something to wear, she’d be up for that. He was in need of a night out after a day like this. So was she.

  She stepped out of the restaurant, and walked along Quiet Street, a stone’s throw from Queen Square.

  The city air was as fresh as a mountain stream after the smell of death. Honey thought about sitting in Queen Square again for a while. That was until she saw her mother coming the other way, arm-in-arm with a man whose identity wasn’t quite clear at that distance, though he was definitely familiar. He reminded Honey very strongly of steak, for some reason …

  ‘No thanks!’ she muttered, heading off in the other, direction, half-thinking that she might turn vegetarian …

  Chapter Twelve

  Having avoided her mother and ‘lover boy’, Honey made for a seat in Abbey Churchyard reckoning she needed the break after what she’d been through. The smell of singed flesh lingered in her nostrils.

  Purchasing a coffee from Starbucks en route, Honey sat down and prepared to enjoy the passing scene. It was like taking a seat at the United Nations but without the speeches. Everyone was enjoying themselves.

  A crowd of French students huddled together while a colleague took a photo. Their smiles were cheesy. Were they saying ‘cheese’ or ‘fromage’? They were interesting to watch, chic even in their youth. No one could be as snap-happy as the Japanese of course – except snapping now also meant digitising – filming the family on demand.

  Steve rang. ‘Are you OK?’ He sounded worried. She pictured him trying to disguise the fact. It made her feel better, though slightly naughty. For a second she toyed with the idea of encouraging even more sympathy. No. Not fair. She made an effort.

  ‘Fine. No breakfast this morning. You know … an empty stomach and all that.’

  ‘Get some fresh air.’

  ‘I am. I’m sitting in Abbey Churchyard.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘In Abbey Churchyard? Are you kidding?’

  ‘I meant close companions. Or the living.’

  Was he jealous? The idea was quite thrilling.

  ‘None.’

  ‘By the way, you dropped something when you keeled over.’

  Did she? She couldn’t remember and hadn’t noticed. Her keys? Her purse?

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ She did a brief rummage of her copious tan shoulder bag. Everything seemed in order.

  ‘Hmm.’ For a brief moment she was sure she heard a trace of amusement. What the devil could be so funny after finding Brian Brodie like that?

  ‘Never mind,’ he went on. ‘I’ll bring it along to the Zodiac tonight – if you’re up for it. I’ll be there.’ He sounded tired.

  The Zodiac was one of their favourite haunts; subterranean and dingily impersonal. It was open until the wee hours and was a place where hard-pressed hoteliers, restaurateurs and pub landlords gathered to unwind once their own businesses were closed.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s got to be around the witching hour.’

  ‘Yeah. I guessed that.’

  He hung up.

  There was nothing she could do about the time. During their brief relationship, he’d insinuated she was too controlling wanting to oversee everything at the hotel until most guests had gone to bed. She hadn’t argued with that. Delegating responsibility wasn’t her thing. If that was controlling, then that was her.

  Tonight he’d brief her on what he knew so far. She wondered at Brian Brodie’s previous girlfriend. Funny him being shacked up with a bit of fluff so soon after she’d left. Seemed like him and Oliver Stafford were tarred with the same brush. Both liked to play around. What about Sylvester Pardoe? She made a mental note to check up on him when the hotel and other pressures allowed.

  Now what was it Steve had picked up that she’d dropped? She delved into her bag again. Nothing important was missing. Never mind. He might be mistaken.

  The façade of the Green River Hotel gleamed like gold in the late afternoon. It was her favourite time of day. She looked along Pulteney Street, admiring the hard black shadows falling from one side of the street, and the honeycomb colour of buildings on the other. Mary Jane, their resident doctor of parapsychology, was right. If you squinted it was easy to imagine women in bonnets and empire-line dresses, and Regency bucks in tight-fitting trousers and riding boots. The smell would be different though; waste from a horse’s rear end rather than the exhaust pipe of a BMW.

  Lindsey looked up from behind the reception desk. She managed a weak smile.

  ‘I didn’t expect you back so early.’

  Her expression made Honey think she’d caught her off guard. She looked slightly panic-stricken, her hands seeming to be buried behind the high top of the reception desk.

  ‘Now what? What’s gone wrong?’

  Lindsey looked hurt. ‘Nothing’s gone wrong.’

  She sounded defensive.

  Honey counted to ten and drove the suspicious thoughts away. Lindsey had had one big lack of judgement. Honey was still trying to deal with her disappointment, but it wasn’t easy.

  She didn’t mean to march so swiftly to the counter. She also didn’t mean to be so obvious about trying to see what Lindsey was hiding.

  ‘These are for you,’ her daughter said suddenly.

  Dark red roses nestled against white freesias and dark green leaves.

  Normally Honey would have had to scrutinise a tiny booklet-type of card to see who had sent her the flowers. In this instance she didn’t need to. The card was flat and white and said simply, ‘TO MY MOTHER. WITH LOVE.’

  Honey bit her lip. Dark red roses with velvety petals always brought a lump to her throat. Carl had bought her such roses back in the good old days before they
’d married. He’d bought her the same for each and every anniversary and when Lindsey was born. Then they’d stopped and bunches of indiscriminate flowers had arrived via Interflora, yellows and pinks and purples. She’d known he hadn’t chosen them; knew that what had been something special had become no more than a duty.

  Silently, Honey wrapped her arms around her daughter. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Lindsey hugging her back.

  They both sniffed as they parted.

  ‘Any messages?’ Honey at last asked.

  ‘Nothing important.’ Lindsey suddenly turned all furtive, looking around her and dropping her voice to just above a whisper. ‘Mary Jane wants to see you.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Shh! Grandma will hear you.’ She took the flowers. ‘Here, let me take them. I’ll put them in water.’

  Honey frowned. ‘What does Mary Jane want?’

  ‘She wants to give you some advice.’

  She was shoved into the store room just behind reception. Mary Jane was sitting cross-legged on the floor. How a woman of her age ever got in such a position was a mystery. It was a wonder she didn’t break something. She was in one of her trances, head back, elbows bent, hands palms upwards.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘As you are no doubt aware, Grandma’s got herself a boyfriend,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘Yes, and he’s got a Rolls-Royce. You know how she is about that particular make of car. I’m not opposed, It’ll keep her off my back.’

  She made to leave. Lindsey pulled her back. ‘But this Roland Mead guy … I mean, Grandma’s not a very good judge of character.’

  Shocked, Honey eyed her daughter and paused that bit too long. The fact that her mother was stepping out with Mead the butcher was surprising. But this was no corner shop outfit he owned. He had ‘brass’ as northern folk would say; warehouse interests, property, and probably supply depots all over Europe.

  ‘Anyway,’ Honey added without thinking. ‘We all make mistakes with men at some point in our lives. Some of us worse mistakes than others. It’s probably hereditary.