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

by Goodhind, Jean G

  ‘There has to be a link between Oliver Stafford and Brian Brodie besides this cooking contest they entered in France.

  ‘Apparently, Richard Carmelli only had it in for Oliver Stafford, so why Brian Brodie?’

  Honey frowned. ‘Why Stella?’

  A mix of admiring and hostile glances were directed at her. The men were admiring. The women looked as though they could execute her on the spot. Steve was popular, in that he brought out the beast in uniformed women.

  Steve’s frown matched hers. ‘Maybe this isn’t about the chefs. Maybe this is about her.’

  ‘Another question,’ said Honey, again attracting silent glares from the girls in blue. ‘What about the marks around Stella’s throat?’

  Steve threw her a grateful nod. ‘That’s a good point. Pathology confirms that they were inflicted prior to her demise, and that the car crash killed her. However, we have to ask ourselves, did someone frighten Stella Broadbent, bearing in mind that she was already drunk? A lethal cocktail; fear and alcohol. If one doesn’t get you, the other will, and both together are lethal.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  It had been a pleasant day before her mother and Roland Mead turned up. The moment her mother was out of earshot, Mead leapt forward, his breath falling over her.

  ‘You’ll regret not doing business with me. No one can touch me for price.’

  ‘The Davis brothers supply quality.’

  ‘Profit!’ said Roland. ‘That’s what this game’s all about, lass. Profit. You can stuff quality up your shirt!’

  Not for the first time Honey wondered what it was her mother saw in the man. She managed to mutter ‘Up your shirt indeed!’ before her mother came back.

  It had never occurred to Honey just how much she actually disliked Mead. It certainly did now. He’d tried currying favour with chef, now he was trying it on with her – again.

  Her mother had brought him in for coffee and ordered a tray with three cups.

  ‘Hannah, darling, do join us. We’d love you to, wouldn’t we, Roland?’

  Roland said something in agreement.

  ‘I’m too busy, Mother.’

  ‘Don’t disappoint us,’ Gloria mewed. She adopted the classic Cocker Spaniel look; no other dog could look so mournful. Her mother could. She looked up into Roland’s rustic face. ‘This is the problem when you get older, Roland. The young are too busy to bother with you.’

  Roland turned all bluff and hearty. He patted the empty space in the chair immediately opposite him. ‘Come on, girl. Take the weight off your feet.’

  She glanced back at the reception desk. Mary Jane was standing there, a splash of colour in a psychedelic pink and pistachio kaftan with matching trousers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother. Mary Jane is waiting at Reception.’

  Ever helpful, Mary Jane overheard and decided to help out. She’d taken to helping with waitressing since she’d moved into the hotel lock, stock and barrel. Her assistance was mostly confined to clearing the dishes. No one had objected; most diners and hotel guests had been shocked into silence. Black and white was the usual uniform for waitresses, most of whom were young and agile. Mary Jane, seventy-something, six feet tall and swathed in bright pink, took some getting used to.

  ‘I only want brochures. I know where they’re kept,’ Mary Jane called out. Ignoring the notice banning guests from going behind the reception desk, she did just that and helped herself. The phone began to ring while she was there. Honey got up.

  Mary Jane got there first. ‘I got it. You stay there with your mother and enjoy your coffee.’

  ‘There you are,’ said her mother. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Now you and I should get to know each other better,’ said Roland, his smile as watery as his eyes.

  Honey kept one ear on Mary Jane.

  ‘You’re calling from La Jolla? Hey, that’s where I’m from.’

  Honey groaned. Whoever was phoning merely wanted to book a room and would want to know the price. By the time they got off the line from Mary Jane, their phone bill would pay for three nights’ accommodation.

  She told Roland the same as she had before; her chef chose suppliers and so far she’d not found any reason not to continue that policy.

  Her mother passed her a coffee. She put it down on the table. Mary Jane was in full flow.

  ‘Well, honey, if you’re coming to England, then you have to visit Bath, and if you’re coming to Bath there’s nowhere else better to say than the Green River Hotel. Would you believe it’s even got a resident ghost? Not that he’ll bother you unless you’re a relative. Sir Cedric and I are intimately acquainted ʼcos, do you know what? I am a relative!’

  Honey groaned inwardly. Now the caller would think that everyone at the hotel – and possibly in the whole city of Bath – was as batty as Mary Jane.

  By mid-morning Honey had decided to go for a drive. The edge of the reception desk was digging into her behind and her arms were folded. Lindsey was sitting in front of the computer screen.

  ‘I need to talk to Sylvester Pardoe,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘Haven’t the police spoken to him?’ asked Lindsey.

  Honey shook her head. ‘He’s too lightweight a contender to figure in their enquiries. But I’ve got a feeling in my water …’

  ‘Then go for it – but plan things, Mother! I know you like to fly by the seat of your pants, but let’s take this one step at a time.’

  Feeling suitably chastised, Honey raised questioning eyebrows. ‘Lead on, Sherlock. What do I do?’

  Lindsey tapped a few keys. ‘Bullet point the reasons you need to speak to him.’

  Honey paused, her emotion stirred by the sight of her daughter’s face bathed in computer-generated light.

  ‘Right! Number one. He attended the Grande Epicure in France three years ago along with the two dead chefs and our own dear Smudge.’

  ‘OK.’ More tapping of keys. ‘And what’s the significance of that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think the dead men did. It’s just finding someone they might have mentioned it to.’

  They both fell to silence as their eyes met. This was telepathy of the mundane variety.

  ‘He never mentioned it,’ said Lindsey referring to Oliver Stafford and looked away.

  Honey forced herself back on track. ‘Right. Number two, he opted out of judging the competition at the last minute. Why was that?’

  Lindsey typed it in. ‘Did you think of phoning him again?’

  ‘He won’t speak to me. I’ll have to go up there.’

  Lindsey sat back in her chair. She was wearing an expression that belonged to someone her grandmother’s age. She sighed.

  ‘Smudge had an affair with Oliver’s wife.’

  ‘What?’ Honey’s hair almost stood on end. ‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

  Lindsey pulled a face. ‘Because he’d seen your reaction to my ‘fall from grace’. Oliver Stafford had a very open view of marriage. He expected his wife to have the same. But Smudger said she found it hard to have carte blanche. She said it made her feel sick.’

  ‘But Smudger still went ahead with it?’ Honey couldn’t believe it.

  ‘Not so much sexually as supportive. I think things got quite serious, almost to the stage of them setting up home together.’

  ‘So why didn’t they go through with it?’

  ‘Well … Oliver’s dead. I guess she’s free now.’

  Honey threw back her head as the truth hit her like a Stone Age cudgel.

  ‘Oh, my God. No wonder he’s been so off-hand! He got emotionally involved and now he’s been dumped. She used him as a crutch.’

  ‘Poor Smudge,’ murmured Lindsey.

  Leaving with a list of questions, Honey retrieved her car from the underground car park where it usually sat and gunned it for the A46 and the Cotswolds.

  Green, yellow and golden fields lay like blankets at either side of the road. Once past Westonbirt Arboretum, honey-gold cottages clustered around villa
ge greens with their village pubs. Grand houses became more frequent, the latter often aglow with Virginia creeper showing signs of changing to red.

  Judging by its exterior of mullion windows and iron tie-rods shaped like horseshoes in its walls, The Haywain was once just an ordinary pub. Long before the current ‘Chelsea tractors’ and sleek sports cars, drovers on their way to market and passing ploughmen had congregated beneath its smoke-blackened beams to drink cider and eat bread and cheese.

  Now the building boasted two Michelin stars. The price of just one item from its current menu would have kept an eighteenth-century ploughman or drover for nigh on a year.

  The slate floor was grey and shiny, the wide oak beams ancient. Suffused with the vision of how many people had passed under its mass, Honey reached up and touched it.

  ‘It’s real. Not plastic,’ said the young waiter, white cloth over his arm, silver tray clutched like a breastplate to his body.

  He had an open face and his smile was helpful.

  ‘I would like to speak to Sylvester Pardoe.’

  ‘And the name of your company?’

  She couldn’t believe her luck. The waiter had assumed she was a sales rep. It was on the tip of her tongue to set the guy right, but her crafty side kicked in. Telling the truth would probably result in her being shown the door.

  ‘Liaisons L’Escargots,’ she said. Heaven knows where the name came from, but it sounded good. ‘Fat little snails from the best fields in the West Country.’

  She flashed him a confident smile. ‘Better than the French produce,’ she added.

  He asked her if she had a card. She acted out the pretence of looking for one.

  ‘No,’ she said shaking her head sadly. She went on to explain that she’d had her handbag stolen the day before and was waiting for a new batch.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said the waiter. ‘Never mind. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Mary Jane Jefferies.’

  The tall American’s name was once again the first that came into her head. It must have been something to do with the paranormal – as though her ectoplasm or something was whispering in her ear.

  The waiter went off. She watched his tight rear and tighter trousers until he’d disappeared, then had a look round while she waited.

  Glasses were being collected. The last of the lunchtime diners were paying their bills, sauntering off to use the cloakrooms before leaving.

  The walls were painted off-white; the mullion windows were intact and tapestries rather than modern artwork complemented furnishings that could have been made just after the Puritan Oliver Cromwell had hacked off the head of King Charles the First. The oak furniture and old-style artefacts pleased her. To his credit Sylvester Pardoe had resisted the urge to follow fashion trends and make the old place plain and modern.

  A young couple came in making enquiries about a wedding. ‘I think you need to see Mr Pardoe himself,’ she told them. ‘I think we could be going in the same direction.’

  The waiter came back. This time it was his face that was tight. She had a feeling what was coming.

  ‘He says you should have made an appointment first, but that he can spare you five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks for your efforts. I appreciate it.’

  He shrugged and managed a nervous smile. ‘It was nothing.’

  Honey guessed it was far from nothing. If she was right, his ear had been well and truly chewed if Pardoe’s attitude on the phone was anything to go by. Mentally girding up her loins, she followed where he led.

  She heard Pardoe before she saw him and winced at the bad language. She reminded herself that he was a chef, not just a restaurant owner.

  Another ‘f’ word rocked the eardrums of everyone within shouting distance. My word, Smudger’s vocabulary was reserved compared to this!

  Pardoe was verbally wiping the floor with a diminutive commis chef. It was something to do with making Coq au Vin with red wine instead of white. The words he used to describe what he’d do if it ever happened again were best censored, thought Honey.

  ‘Now get the f … out of here!’

  The poor creature, head bowed, scurried off like a hamster in search of a wheel.

  The man with the pony tail and the heavy shock of fringe falling over his face swivelled round to face her.

  Unsmiling, he glanced at his watch.

  ‘You’ve got five minutes.’

  Pardoe was not immediately aware of the young couple following her.

  ‘I’m not selling snails. I’ve come to talk about murder. These people behind me have come to talk about a wedding. Perhaps you’d like to deal with them first.’

  For a moment Pardoe looked shell-shocked, his expression flitting from arrogance to discomfort and closely followed by gushing familiarity.

  Teeth flashing, he addressed the young couple. ‘My profound apologies. Mr Gregg and Miss Sommer?’

  He arranged for them to have coffee and a complimentary glass of champagne in the lounge while perusing menus and table arrangements.

  ‘I’ll be right with you after I’ve dealt with this lady,’ he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

  Mr Happy Face closed the door. Mr Bloody Angry turned to face her. ‘What the bloody hell …’

  ‘Don’t you dare shout at me, Sylvester bloody Pardoe!’

  He couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d slapped him in the face with a piece of cod.

  Honey maintained the initiative. ‘I am Hannah Driver.’ She swiftly flashed her wallet full of credit cards and suchlike. The one from Bath Library complete with her picture looked the most officious. And she’d specifically used her true name.

  ‘I’m liaising with the police regarding the murder of Oliver Stafford and Brian Brodie on behalf of Bath Hotels Association. I need to ask you some questions.’

  She groped in her bag for a notebook and a pen. The former came to hand. The latter did not. Deeper and deeper she went. By virtue of their shape and weight, pens always seemed to worm their way to the bottom.

  The tips of her fingers touched one. At the same time her sleeve snagged on something. When she pulled her arm out the ‘something’ came too.

  ‘Bugger,’ she said, her face already reddening. ‘They built them to last back then,’ she said apologetically as she tried to untangle herself from the metal fasteners on the outsize bra. Why did it always happen to her? And why now, just when she’d adopted the role and tone of authority?

  She looked at Pardoe. His jaw was slack and his mouth open. She actually saw a twinkle dance in his eyes. Well that was a turn-up for the books!

  First the corners of his mouth twitched. The twitch became a wider movement and ultimately a wide grin.

  ‘What the f …?’

  Honey regained her composure. ‘I am of the opinion that bad language is a last resort of a total moron.’

  She could have simply said ‘Do you mind not using bad language?’, but sensed too many had already gone down that road. Sylvester Pardoe didn’t pardon himself for anyone.

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ she added, pushing the offending item – which she would for ever and a day refer to as a ‘brazier’ – back into her bag. ‘Now. Shall we make a start?’

  ‘Crack on,’ he said, a half smile wavering on his face as he settled himself into a chair.

  Honey did the same, pulling a chair forward so she could rest her notepad on the corner of the blue metal, very trendy desk. In her mind she blessed whoever had shoved the giant undergarment into her bag. Pardoe’s mood might never have lifted but for it.

  Honey composed herself. ‘Right. First off …’

  ‘Hold it right there. I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell you what I do know, such as that bloody witch Broadbent was screwing her chef. Mind you, he’d screw anything anyway depending on the stakes. This could be about sex or it could be about money.’

  Honey pounced on the money angle. ‘You mean stakes as in money, cut of the action, valuables e
tc.?’

  He dropped his head in a curt nod. ‘That sort. And before you ask, no, I don’t know what kind of wedge we’re talking about here. Something valuable. Something that would keep my old friend Oliver in the lifestyle he easily became used to. And yes, my referring to him as an old friend is facetious. I hated the bast–’

  Honey interjected. ‘Was that why you opted out of judging the Bath International Taste competition?’

  ‘I hated him.’

  ‘And you knew Brian Brodie. Were he and Oliver close friends?’

  ‘In a way. Brian limped along in his shadow.’

  ‘Who tipped you off?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A friend.’

  She frowned. ‘I understand you met Stafford and Brodie at the Grande Epicure some time ago. Did they do something there to form your opinion of them?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  Honey eyed the hard features, the chin firm, the lips set in a straight thin line. The soft look in his eyes was at odds with all that. Sylvester Pardoe was burning inside, but why and with what?

  She sensed he wasn’t going to give any more, unless perhaps she rescheduled her questioning to a more personal level?

  ‘My chef, Mark Smith, attended the Grande Epicure. Did you hate him too?

  She held her breath as she awaited his answer.

  Sylvester Pardoe shook his head and smiled sadly. ‘Poor Smudger. He’s a good egg and a good chef, but when he gets on the beer …’

  Smiling, Honey nodded her head knowingly. Four pints and her chef was sound asleep. Any more than that and he was comatose. ‘Vulnerable to pressure,’ she said winningly.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘I find family pressures are worse than business pressures,’ she said without thinking, without expecting Pardoe’s reaction.

  He didn’t meet her look so didn’t see her watching his knuckles turning white. He was clenching his fists fit to burst. Sylvester Pardoe was quick-tempered, arrogant and a damn sight more. But there was something else beneath the surface, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on …