‘Ask me,’ said Honey, visibly grinding her teeth.
‘Ask her,’ said her mother. She didn’t look too pleased about the deal.
The smile barely flickered. ‘OK. How about it?’
Honey flinched. The last thing she wanted was to spend a precious lunchtime with her mother and ‘the boyfriend’, though boy was hardly the right word. The most boyish thing about him was the toupée, perhaps scalped from a childhood friend.
A sweet smile was called for. ‘I wouldn’t want to impose. I’ve got a business to run.’ She glanced tellingly at her watch.
‘Business! Yes! That’s just what I’d like to talk you about,’ said Roland.
Honey eyed the arm protectively draped around her mother’s shoulders. The roguish look was still in his eyes.
‘Me and your mother being so close, stands to reason I can give you a real good meat deal,’ said Roland.
It pained her teeth, but she held on to the sweet smile. ‘I wouldn’t want to ruin your lunch. I think Mother would prefer to have you to herself.’
Roland’s white teeth flashed like a toothpaste advert. Were they real?
‘A proper business date perhaps?’ he suggested with a fixed, wide-mouth smile. Flash, flash, flash!
Her mother jumped in feet first.
‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd,’ she said, tightening her grip on Roland’s waist, smiling up at him like a lovesick teenager. ‘We don’t need kids out with us adults.’
‘Well.’ He glanced swiftly at mother then daughter. ‘Another time perhaps.’
Although it hurt her jaw, Honey pasted on what passed for a sincere smile. ‘Definitely another time.’ When hell freezes over.
They sauntered off, her mother giving a cute little wave over her shoulder. ‘By the way, chef’s not being very sensible. You need to have a word with him.’
Her stomach felt as though she’d been swallowing scrap iron as worst-case scenarios flashed through her mind like streaks of lightning. Please God she hasn’t upset Smudger. Her footsteps quickened.
Her mother was walking out with a master butcher and her meddling was affecting the business. But there was something else.
Was it possible that she was missing her mother’s spurious attempts at matchmaking? Dentists, accountants and stockbrokers; dull types offering money and security but precious little excitement. All had been sadly lacking in the eye candy department. First priority was chef. Why was Smudger upset? Worse still, what part had her mother played in his unhappiness?
She caught Smudger reading the newspaper when she got back. She prayed it wasn’t the employment section.
‘Everything OK?’ she asked breezily and crossed her fingers behind her back. Don’t mention anything until he does.
He turned his head slowly and fixed her with an accusing eye.
Nightmare scenarios flashed through her mind. Advertising for a new chef; interviewing; new menus; old customers muted response to new blood … the list was endless. Her blood ran cold.
‘What have I done?’
His jaw shifted from side to side as he chewed over his thoughts, prolonging the agony. ‘I’m not in favour of changing butchers.’
She was taken aback. ‘Who told you we were changing? No! Wait. Don’t answer that. My mother.’
She sat down next to him. ‘Smudger. Whose hotel is this?’
‘Yours.’
‘Not my mother’s. Mine. What did she say to you?’
He hesitated. Honey’s stomach churned. This could be bad.
‘She said that if Mead became part of the family then we’d be switching to him.’
Marriage? Her mother was talking about marriage? Had she taken leave of her senses?
‘Over my dead body! Now listen to me. I value your judgement. Choice of supplier lies ultimately with you. OK?’
The rigid shoulders relaxed as the tension left him. ‘OK.’
Honey gave a big sigh of relief.
‘Right,’ she said getting to her feet. ‘It’s Lindsey’s night off and mine too, so how about you cook us a delicious meal. We’ll have it in the coach house. OK?’
She didn’t add that it was a kind of making-up celebration. That was between her and Lindsey.
‘I’ll rustle you up something special. Coquilles St Jacques?’
‘Just the ticket!’
Feeling as though her feet were floating six inches off the ground, she sauntered off. Her mother’s meddling had been fixed again.
Everything in the garden was lovely – for a while. Lindsey disappointed her, though. Surprise, surprise, she had a date.
‘Sorry, Mum.’
She went on to say that she was going to a nightclub with a group of friends including a guy she was quite keen on.
‘Fine.’
But it wasn’t fine, though it should be. What was happening here? For some time she’d been encouraging Lindsey to let her hair down; now she was doing exactly that, so why the peevishness? She had male company. So did her mother. And there’s the rub. Daughter and mother had dates and she didn’t.
Petulant, peeved and feeling left out, she slumped off to the coach house, making for the bathroom.
Have a long, luxurious soak. Do your nails. Do your hair. Pamper yourself.
Yes, a nice soak would do the trick. After stripping off she eyed her naked self in a full-length mirror. Did she look good naked? The lighting was good, the mirror sharp. The truth was nebulous.
‘The jury’s out on that one,’ she muttered to herself when suddenly something happened to make things better. The hot water was still tumbling into the tub, the steam misting the mirror and blurring her image. A great improvement!
Now could she scoff two portions of Coquilles St Jacques with all the trimmings and a bottle of Chardonnay all by herself? The prospect was far from daunting. Comfort eating had kicked in.
She eased herself down into the warm water, her head resting on the roll top. The bath was Victorian, had lion’s claw feet and was big enough for two. Her spirits rose. Now there’s a thought …
Being alone this evening wasn’t very appealing. Neither was telling Smudger that the special meal was off. His ego was still fragile. She didn’t want to upset him.
Her eyes slid sidelong to her mobile phone. She picked it up and dialled Doherty’s number. Two murders. He was busy, but surely he could fit in a lovely meal and an available woman? Surely it must be as obvious to him as it was to her that they could easily become an item – with a little work on both sides, of course.
‘I’m all alone tonight and chef’s cooking a special meal for two.’
‘I’ll be round at ten.’
Whooping for joy, she ducked beneath the surface. Mission accomplished!
Chapter Seventeen
Steve was leaning on the door post when she opened it. One hand flopped over his forehead, a blue tie hung loose around his neck. Surprise, surprise, he hadn’t shaved, and for at least two days judging by his stubble. He drew a hand across his chin. The stubble made a rasping sound; audio testosterone. Honey’s legs turned to jelly.
He looked tired, but his mouth lifted in a lop-sided smile. ‘You didn’t say whether it was a black tie event, but I managed a blue one.’
She’d warmed to that smile shortly after she’d met him. Given half the chance she’d get a lot warmer, quite hot in fact. So far the right time hadn’t materialised. But it would. Shortly.
The table was laid and the food was ready. All it needed was a little cooking off.
As she set out the first dish, Honey told him in more detail about her visit to the fancy dress shop in Batheaston. Steve listened as he dealt with the wine. ‘But no reply when you phoned him,’ he managed between yawns.
‘No.’
They clinked glasses. ‘I was also going to ask you whether there were any security cameras at the Beau Brummell.
He nodded. ‘There are but they’re well hidden. The trailing geraniums play a starring role.’
&nb
sp; She took a taste of wine. ‘Not the variegated ivy?’
He grinned. ‘That too. We’ve got the tapes down at the station. The security bloke isn’t sure they were working that night, but we’re going to check them anyway.’ He muttered something about maintenance.’
They sat down to their meal.
‘There were other incidents suggesting that the hotel, the owner and the dead chef were the victims of a hate campaign,’ said Steve gently cradling a glass of wine in his hands. ‘Stella Broadbent’s car was the victim of a spray job from someone who wasn’t too hot on spelling.’
Honey saw the amusement on his face and sensed she was about to be enlightened.
‘F_U_K_i_n_g cow in purple and green. Similar thing happened to the chef’s car; some of the customers’ cars had punctures, coach parties had been misdirected – though that could have been accidental – but the rat in the pantry and the cockroaches in the rice sack were a bit suspect.’
Honey made a face. ‘Killing the chef was a bit drastic. One hatred too many. And what about Sylvester Pardoe?’
Steve frowned and gulped back his wine in frustration. ‘Now there’s the rub, as that bloke Shakespeare once said. Are we looking at two separate crimes? The murders of the chefs were done by the same person. Forensic are pretty set on that. But is the hate campaign connected to the murders?’
Honey sat down and sipped at the wine he handed her. ‘Right. Let’s take it that they are unconnected, in which case my money would be on an ex-employee or someone she’d crossed in business.’
‘Did she cross many people in business?’
She almost choked on the wine before answering. ‘This is Stella Broadbent we’re talking about. Flasher of everything she’s got; rub it into the wounds extraordinaire! She made people cross, that was for sure.’
He grinned. ‘Like you for instance.’
Honey made little mewing noises of discomfort and heaved her shoulders.
‘OK. I was envious of her car park. Of her hotel too, come to that. She’s got more rooms than me and they’re pretty swanky by all accounts. She told everyone how much better they were than anything her competitors could offer. She told them to their face. The cow loved winding people up. Dracula drank blood. Well, Stella thrived on envy. Rubbing your nose in it, as they say around here.’
She noticed Steve’s attention wandering between her eyes and her lips. She imagined he liked the colour of her eyes. She sensed him forcing himself back to the subject in hand.
‘It’s worth pursuing. We questioned the staff, but not rivals in business.’
Honey eyed him speculatively. She felt a task coming on when he smiled at her like that.
Steve held her eyes with his own. ‘I’m sure you’d be better at that. You know which hoteliers she wound up the most. There may be something, or there may be nothing, but do it for me, eh? Just in case there is some connection.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘You’re loading me up with a lot of work, Doherty. Do you know how many hotels there are in Bath? And don’t think I don’t know what you’re playing at.’
He smiled in that boyish, rakish way of his: Colin Firth as Mr Darcy but without the thigh-hugging breeches. On the other hand, he didn’t need the tight trousers. His jeans hinted at what was on offer. She could go with that. She also accepted that other hoteliers were more likely to confide in her than in Steve. She knew the game. After a few words with Casper – who knew everything about everyone in the hospitality trade, she would know which hoteliers to question.
As she considered who might come top of the list, she assessed the calorie count of the scallops before heaping salad onto her plate.
A thought suddenly came to her. ‘Something funny, something sad. That’s what Andrea Andover said about the guy who booked the deal. Annoying that he didn’t give her his name. She reckons Francis Trent– Obadiah – our pseudo-Masai warrior knows. I’ve asked Andrea to let Francis know that I want a word with him.’
Steve perked up. ‘The stuntwoman. I hear she used to double for a load of Hollywood stars. Did she look anything like Demi Moore?’
Honey grimaced at Steve’s shallow moment. She threw him a disapproving look, shook her head and swallowed a new potato. ‘No. More like Bruce Willis. After a year of living on doughnuts.’
He pulled a face. ‘Grim! Mind you,’ he said, his look flowing over the area of body between her neck and her knees, ‘present company makes up for the disappointment.’
She felt herself getting hot – and it was nothing to do with the weather.
‘Cheese?’
She left him with a wedge of St Agur and a box of crackers sitting in front of him. No need to present food that well for Steve, he knew what he liked. No need for trimmings. He’d probably like her the same way, she mused.
While he spread cheese and chomped crackers, she went to the bathroom.
The eyes she saw in the cabinet mirror were looking a little wild tonight – and it wasn’t just due to the wine.
‘Right,’ she said taking a deep breath and tousling her hair. ‘It’s now or never.’
Granted that their professional relationship was something of a barrier to their personal one, but once that was put aside it was no holds barred. Getting better acquainted physically was like a spectre at the feast; the feast they never quite got round to.
Her bosoms surged against her neckline as she took a deep breath. Tonight could be the night. They were both tired, but also relaxed. Time to take the plunge.
Besides making sure the bedroom was tidy and the sheets fresh, she squirted extra perfume behind her ears, down her cleavage and up her skirt. Who knows where things could lead? she thought.
Recalling her naked self in the wickedly honest full-length mirror, she turned down the lighting and remembered the saying that less is more. In this case she hoped that less lighting equalled less bumpy bits and dimpled thighs. Before leaving the bedroom she tugged off the knee-length controlling undergarment and slipped on a black lace thong. The bulges that had been smoothed bubbled against her dress. Never mind, Steve had sunk two glasses of wine and eaten well. And rule one was in operation; the lighting was low.
She studied her reflection. Cleavage? Not enough but easily rectified. She undid the top button. Cheeks? Flushed. The wine was responsible for that, sadly. Shoes? Drat! Why hadn’t she noticed earlier that she was wearing her flat black ballet pumps? She swapped them for a pair of four-inch heels that she couldn’t stand upright on for longer than fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes should be enough …
Right! One last look in the mirror, and hey presto! She was sex on legs. Fabulous! Totally irresistible.
Sashay in. That was the thing. She stopped just before the door. Would sashaying in be sexy enough to tempt him. Perhaps not. She tossed her head. Be a bit more alluring. Use everything you’ve got.
Honey ran her hands down over her ribs and her waist, carefully avoiding the ‘love handle’ areas. Well, the legs were good. Good enough for a dancer, a very sexy and alluring dancer …
Smiling she hitched up her skirt. If this didn’t impress him, nothing would.
‘Da, da, da, de, da, da, da …’
Accompanied by her off-key rendition of ‘The Stripper’ Honey slowly extended one nearly-naked leg, then curved it around the door.
She’d expected some response like ‘Holy Cow!’ or ‘Wow!’ at the very least.
But nothing. She told herself he was dumbstruck. Gradually, she eased her body round ending up posed provocatively against the door post.
And there was Steve. He was lying full stretch on the settee, eyes closed, mouth open.
‘Steve?’
Even an outright rejection would have been better than his sudden resounding snore.
There was only one thing left to do. The dishes were waiting. She gathered them up and took them to the kitchen.
Chapter Eighteen
The day could have started better. The dishwasher decided to have one of its away
days, so the kitchen resembled a Turkish steam room.
‘The rotation arm’s not turning,’ shouted the kitchen porter, his head emerging from the machine in a hot, sweaty haze.
Honey resigned herself to ringing the repair man. His answer phone gurgled into life telling her that he was away on a cruise around the Mediterranean and wouldn’t be back until the 16th.
She swore at the phone as she slammed it down. People could be so selfish. On holiday! Did he have no idea of her dishwasher’s fickle temperament?
A lever arch file of useful contacts left by the previous owner was her next port of call. As thick and heavy as a volume of Encyclopaedia Britannica, she heaved it up on to the desk.
‘I need to enter all this stuff on our database,’ she murmured with a sideways glance at Lindsey. Her daughter’s face was presently lit by the computer screen.
‘That’s impossible,’ said Lindsey.
‘Why?’
‘You don’t know how to.’
Lindsey had a point.
‘By the way,’ her daughter added. ‘What’s the decoration hanging from the ceiling fan?’
Honey glanced over her shoulder at the closed door to her private office. She remembered the huge brassiere she’d flung into the air on her return from the kitchen last night. She’d left her bag on her desk in the office behind reception. As she’d grabbed it the contents had spilled onto the floor. The ‘brazier’ had been amongst them. Irritated by Steve’s snoring and then that mishap, she’d thrown the bra skywards. More aerodynamically designed than she’d thought, it had flown higher than she’d envisaged and landed on the ceiling fan.
She searched for and found an unbelievable excuse. ‘Those things have multiple uses don’t you know. Lampshades. Trendy, don’t you think?’
After sorting out a repair man for the dishwasher, she rang Francis Trent, aka Obadiah the Masai warrior. There was no response. Shame. He was the only person who knew the identity of the bloke who’d hired him.
Before dropping off to sleep, Doherty had told her about the other incidents at the Beau Brummell: misdirected coach parties, a rat in the pantry, and a series of paint jobs done on Stella’s Mercedes and Stafford’s BMW. Both cars had been the object of a spray-can fiend. The ridiculous hiring of a kissogram actor was over the top, but also a flaw in the perpetrator’s thinking. Someone had had it in for Stella and her chef. Francis had to have a name. Sylvester Pardoe fitted into this somewhere, but she hadn’t figured out where yet, and neither had Steve Doherty. He’d told her that over toast and coffee this morning – after apologising for falling asleep the night before. She’d made him suffer a bit, showing her displeasure, though not letting on about the floor show he’d missed. It could be a while before she was that keen again.
A Taste To Die For - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 13