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

by Goodhind, Jean G

  Stella Broadbent’s eyelids flickered and fluttered between open and shut. The world was presently a bleary place and there was no one to talk to. Why wasn’t she in bed, she wondered? She couldn’t remember getting ready to go out but knew she was out. She was just a bit unsure of where.

  It was night time; that much was for certain. The sky was coal-black. The lights up on the road didn’t seem as bright as usual and the facades of Regency buildings wobbled as though they were made of rubber.

  ‘I need a drink,’ she muttered.

  No one brought her one. Didn’t they hear? Had everyone gone home?

  Her eyes flickered one more time and then shut. Unfortunately the buildings were still there, wobbling around behind her eyelids. She was unaware of the stealthy footsteps, the figure emerging from the shadows. Her eyes popped open when a hand was clamped across her mouth. Her voice was stifled by another hand around her throat. She tried to scream. Her lips wobbled – just like the buildings.

  His breath was moist against her ear. ‘No talking to the police, Stella.’

  She tried to say that she hadn’t been talking to the police.

  ‘Or anyone involved with the police,’ he said as though he’d read her thoughts. ‘Leave the sauce alone and keep your mouth shut.’

  The tips of iron-hard fingers dug into her throat. Stella felt the breath being choked out of her body, the world blackening around her.

  She fought for air and, at the same time, emptied her bladder.

  Just as suddenly as they’d arrived, the hands were gone. She could breathe. She coughed and spluttered taking great gasps as she tried to refill her lungs.

  Huge tears erupted from the corners of her eyes, taking her make-up with them. Ashamed and soiled, she struggled to her feet, terror following like a snarling dog at her heels. She ran through the passageway that bypassed the bar and went straight to the exit.

  The doorman asked her if she wanted a taxi.

  She said she didn’t. ‘I’ve got my car.’

  She didn’t see him frown. Neither did she hear him remark that she really shouldn’t be driving. She had to drive. She had to get away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sleeping had weighed heavily on Honey’s mind – and on her eyelids. She struggled from bed at around eight, wriggling her toes into her slippers before making her way into the shower.

  Water cascading on her face helped clear her head. That was when she looked down at her feet and realised her head hadn’t been clear enough. She was still wearing her slippers.

  Slippers in bin, body in clothes, she made her way to reception. Smudger wasn’t due in until ten.

  She phoned her mother. ‘Are you up?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  Her mother sounded indignant.

  ‘How did things go last night?’

  ‘Not too good actually. Roland got called away on a matter of business. Someone called him from the warehouse. He had to go.’

  Honey offered her sympathy, though she secretly thought it the best thing that could have happened. It was nothing to do with jealousy, she told herself. She was just looking after her mother’s welfare.

  ‘He’s making it up to me. He’s taking me for a drive in the Cotswolds.’

  Honey’s attention clicked in. The Cotswolds. That was where Sylvester Pardoe lived.

  ‘Today’s Wednesday. I thought Wednesday was your day for Second-hand Sheila.’

  Second-hand Sheila was a dress shop her mother ran in conjunction with a few other well-heeled, fashionable women. Dresses and other items bought for a fortune were brought in by women who had to have the latest fashion. The items they brought in were sold at a knock-down price. The sum received was divided between the shop and the customer. Her mother never missed a Wednesday in the shop, where the gossip sparkled as brightly as sequins on a cocktail dress.

  ‘I changed shifts,’ she explained.

  ‘Mother, don’t you think you’re getting a bit too involved …’

  ‘Mind your own business.’

  The phone went dead.

  This was worrying. The dead chefs were worrying. She forced herself to concentrate and figured she was doing pretty well.

  Although not quite up to speed, things were chugging along well enough – or so it seemed. Wake-up time was bound to come and it did. She had just made up a bill for a three-night stay for two Canadians presently checking out.

  The retired accountant perused his bill and raised his eyebrows. ‘Hell, am I paying for gold taps in that room?’

  Not quite getting the implication, Honey eyed him through narrowed, burning eyes. ‘Sir, we don’t have gold taps.’

  ‘So why such an expensive bill?’ he asked, pointing to the four-figure total.

  Honey apologised profusely as she scribbled over the extra nought that had appeared from out of the blue.

  Seeing her mother being a dunderhead, Lindsey muscled in. ‘Let me do that. Why don’t you go and have a lie down.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Try.’

  They exchanged a look of understanding, their old warmth wrapping around them both.

  Honey was touched. Her eyes moistened when she smiled. ‘OK.’

  She headed for the door marked private that led out to the path leading to her private quarters in the coach house. Just as she reached out to open the door, she heard that old familiar hiss; similar to the sound of a gas leak.

  ‘Psst!’

  Honey looked around. A head was hissing at her. The rest of the body was hidden behind the tapestry screen dividing her private door from the main reception area. A pair of blue eyes sparkled through layers of fine wrinkles.

  ‘I need to speak to you,’ said Mary Jane in a hoarse whisper.

  A long, thin finger beckoned her to follow.

  That was it. The quick nap wouldn’t happen. She smiled at Mary Jane and followed her crooked finger into the lounge.

  Mary Jane was tall and gaunt, favoured wearing pink and had decided she was living for ever. A wrinkled hippy, she drove a pink 1963 Cadillac which had been shipped over just after she’d decided she was moving to England on a permanent basis. Driving on the left-hand side of the road in a left-hand drive car had proved a bit of a problem at first, but eventually both Mary Jane – and the city of Bath – had got used to it.

  The conservatory was empty of other guests, but still Mary Jane’s voice dropped to an octave above a whisper. ‘Polly came to my room last night, hammering on my door like a demented banshee.’

  Honey frowned. Did she have a member of staff named Polly? Casual perhaps? She started to apologise. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Mary Jane. I’ll look into it.’

  Mary Jane’s wrinkles disappeared in a look of amazement.

  ‘Hell, no, Honey, darling! Isn’t that what I came here for? Having my friends from the other side cross over to visit me? Polly’s never quite got the hang of walking through walls. She still thinks she’s alive and can’t do any of that stuff.’

  The penny dropped. Pennies dropped a lot with Mary Jane seeing as she mostly lived in another world.

  The ‘crossing over’ she referred to had nothing to do with flying across the Atlantic. She was talking about the dearly departed who seemed inclined to drop in to see her on a regular basis.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were referring to one of the chambermaids,’ said Honey as Mary Jane pressed her into a chair.

  ‘I was referring to a maid,’ exclaimed Mary Jane, her bright eyes aglow, her expression animated. ‘Apparently she was a gypsy child left on the doorstep and Sir Cedric’s wife took her in. And before you ask me which wife, it was his second. You know how it was with Sir Cedric.’

  Honey adopted the most serious expression she possessed and nodded. Of course she knew how it was. According to Mary Jane, Sir Cedric, a man of means who’d died around about 1750, had married three times and seemed to have chased anything wearing a skirt. Mary Jane claimed to be his direct descendent.

 
; ‘I see,’ she said as though she’d just been told that next door’s cat had got run over.

  For the umpteenth time since Mary Jane had first descended on the Green River Hotel, Honey asked herself why she was listening to this drivel. But she kept listening; eyes wide open. Sir Cedric was their resident ghost, though not the only one it seemed. Ghosts were forever asking Mary Jane’s opinion as to where they’d gone wrong in their lives. ‘Sometimes I’m kind of an agony aunt,’ she’d explained. ‘And sometimes I’m just someone they want to impress.’

  ‘Of course.’

  It wasn’t inarguable or irrefutable, just plain unbelievable. But Mary Jane was nice and she didn’t want to upset her.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mary Jane went on. ‘Polly is adamant that she has second sight and can read the cards and what have you. Whether that makes her a bona fide gypsy or not I don’t know.’

  Neither did Honey. A dead gypsy, yes, but she was saying nothing.

  ‘Anyway, she tends to materialise in the rose garden just beside the sundial.’

  Now this was something new. Had her mother secretly introduced a cluster of hybrid tea roses without telling her? If she had she must have done it in the last few minutes.

  ‘We don’t have a sundial – or a rose garden for that matter.’

  ‘You don’t now,’ said Mary Jane, her wrinkled hand patting Honey’s as though she hadn’t long started school. ‘But back when she worked here there was a rose garden and a sundial.’ She looked up at the ceiling, a normal aspect of her thought-collecting process. ‘Now what was I saying? Ah, yes! She’s made a prediction that someone who used to be married but isn’t any longer is about to come to a sticky end. She says he or she’s to be wary of travelling in a carriage, especially if there are no horses pulling it.’

  Honey blinked. ‘A horseless carriage. A car.’

  Mary Jane closed one eye and took a few seconds to think about it. ‘A car. Yeah. I see your point.’

  ‘Do we know the name of this person?’ Honey asked.

  ‘She’ll appear just as we say …’

  Mary Jane’s sentence was cut off in mid-stream. The door swung open and Honey’s mother made the grand entrance.

  Gloria floated in accompanied by a cloud of perfume and the clicking of her kitten-heel shoes. She was dressed in a light lavender outfit liberally sprinkled with hand-sewn silver rose buds around the hem.

  Honey threw Mary Jane an ominous look.

  Mary Jane threw one right back.

  Gloria did a twirl in front of the French doors.

  ‘Guess what? Roland is taking me to a Freemasons’ lunch at Grover Park.’ She paused for effect, hands together, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. ‘In his Rolls-Royce!’

  Honey and Mary Jane exchanged more startled glances. When it came to getting divorced, her mother was a prime contender for Mary Jane’s … no, Polly’s prophecy.

  ‘You can’t,’ exclaimed Mary Jane.

  ‘Do you have to?’ Honey’s scepticism was reflected in her tone. She didn’t want to believe Mary Jane’s warning, but still, you couldn’t be too careful.

  Her mother’s bottom lip trembled. Her eyes glittered. ‘Have you any idea how long it’s been since I rode in a real Rolls-Royce with a handsome, attentive man?’

  That look! Something between a petulant child and a bulldog about to bite your backside.

  In her mind, Honey was telling herself that Mary Jane’s ghosts were just figments of her imagination. And so were their prophesies. Weren’t they?

  This would be a balancing act. Much as she had no wish to upset her long-term guest, she recognised her own cowardice. ‘OK, OK. Enjoy yourself. What do I care about the way he might drive? What do I care if he careers along at ninety and you hit the back of a bus and …’

  ‘Hey there! Just hold on.’ Her mother looked horrified.

  ‘It was Polly,’ explained Mary Jane, her glittering eyes unblinking, her expression tense. ‘She’s Sir Cedric’s maid – or rather his wife’s maid – and she said …’

  Gloria pulled herself up to her full five feet four inches. ‘Mary Jane Jefferies, you are out of your skull! Get a life! Get real! Get a man !’

  She marched off, got as far as the door and turned round. ‘And you,’ she said, pointing her finger at her daughter, ‘are just plain jealous. You’d have liked Roland’s attention yourself. God knows you’ve had enough opportunities with some really suitable men I’ve put your way. But you’ve blown them all. You’re just like your father. He never listened to me either. But never mind. I’ve got my man. AND YOU HAVE NOT!’

  The door slammed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Mary Jane once the echo had died away. She was biting her bottom lip, the corners of her eyes down-turned. Coupled with her wrinkles, it made her look like a very sad bloodhound.

  Honey didn’t remark on the fact that her mother’s efforts at matchmaking were insufferable and that the men she’d found for her daughter were as interesting as a garden full of limp lettuce. She shook her head. ‘No need. You know my mother. She pleases herself.’

  Mary Jane was holding her head to one side as though she were listening for something. Her eyes had that glazed, ‘I’m not in this world’ kind of look.

  She frowned. ‘Polly tells me to take a rain check on this. She reckons the accident may already have happened and that the person may have already crossed over.’

  She nodded sagely, like some big-time newspaper editor who picks and chooses what stuff he’s going to print.

  ‘Right you are, Polly. You think she may already be there – and close too.’

  She looked surprised; then more of the tilted head, the eyes gazing at the ceiling.

  ‘Polly asks if perhaps there’s someone else you know who happens to be divorced …’

  ‘My father’s dead.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he come visiting.’

  Mary Jane shrugged. ‘Ain’t got no need to? Besides, your mother’s here. He might not want to rekindle her acquaintance.’

  ‘When did Polly tell you about the accident?’

  Her frown was deep and she bit her lip quite hard. ‘It was late last night when she told me about it. She always comes just when I’m drinking my primrose tea beneath the moonlight out in the garden before settling down for the night.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope she’s wrong.’ Honey made her excuses and left her there. ‘I’ll get someone to bring you a herbal tea.’

  Mary Jane nodded. She looked crestfallen. Honey made sure about the tea.

  ‘With or without a teaspoon of medicine?’ asked Lindsey.

  ‘With,’ Honey replied.

  Lindsey added a dash of gin to the raspberry-flavoured tea. Mary Jane would never admit to it, but herbal tea without a dash of gin stayed firmly in the cup.

  The sound of saucepans clattering came from the kitchen. Smudger had arrived. Honey pushed open the swing door.

  Smudger was already in his whites and was wearing a red bandana as a sweat band. It complimented his pink complexion and corn-coloured hair.

  His voice filled the kitchen. ‘Okra, mange tout, squash and Jersey Royals.’

  A trainee chef scuttled out to the vegetable store to fetch what was required. One of his commis chefs was already slicing up the mis en place – a salad selection for lunch-time use.

  Her head chef looked surprised to see her. ‘Is it Monday? Are we changing the menu?’

  Entering his kitchen without a pre-scheduled arrangement was never something to be taken lightly.

  ‘I need to speak to you.’

  A certain something about his face caused her to look and look again. Normally close-shaved, a few days stubble shadowed his chin.

  ‘Fine,’ he said while slicing an eighteen-inch cucumber at breakneck speed.

  ‘In private.’

  His eyes met hers. He didn’t say anything but followed her out into the hallway.

  She cleared her throat and folded her arms. �
�Steve Doherty wants to ask you some more questions. He’s coming in just after lunch.’

  He turned promptly away. ‘Not a good time.’

  ‘Mark!’

  It wasn’t often that she called him by his real name. When she did he knew he was in big trouble.

  ‘Did you lie about that night?’

  His expression hardened. He shook his head. ‘No.’

  Honey did an in-depth evaluation of his expression. Mouth defiant, nostrils narrowed, chin firm; no direct giveaway, but there was something about the look in his eyes …

  ‘Is there anything else you want to tell me?’

  He shook his head again. ‘No.’

  Again the abrupt turn. It made her angry, so much so that she had an urge to say something truly shocking to make him stay – something erudite but plucked out of thin air.

  The best she could come up with was, ‘What do you know about the Grande Epicure?’

  Had she plucked the words from nowhere? No. Surely someone had mentioned it. Richard Carmelli? Whatever. They were enough to stop him in his tracks.

  His hand had been holding the door open. Now he let it go. His face darkened.

  ‘Who told you?’

  Her heart raced. Smudger didn’t frighten her – usually. ‘I … um … think it was …’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind. Tell me what you know.’

  He looked down at the floor when he nodded as though he were remembering something and trying to get things clear in his head. ‘OK. I will. After lunch? When our pet copper arrives?’

  She agreed, or at least she did for a while. The door to the kitchen swung shut and he was gone. She heard shouted orders. Once more Smudger was lord of his own domain.

  Honey wandered through reception, into the lounge and out into the conservatory. She was again the model hotelier, nodding and smiling at guests. In her head she was thinking of the two dead chefs. She’d seen Smudger’s dislike of Oliver Stafford. She hadn’t asked him about Sylvester Pardoe. She turned on her heel meaning to do just that. Lindsey blocked her path.

  ‘I thought you were going for a lie down.’

  It was daft feeling that she had to excuse herself to her daughter, but that was exactly how she felt.