Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Her eyes stayed with him as he crossed the road to the house they’d hired for the shoot. Her ears were tuned to what was happening around her. She heard her neighbour whisper something. It sounded like ‘drop dead’. ‘Hear, hear,’ muttered someone else.

  ‘I take it she’s not that popular,’ Honey said to her sound technician friend.

  ‘About as popular as a boil on the bum,’ he said. Then, with a grin, he added, ‘And we all know what’s best for a boil on the bum. They’re best lanced – with something very sharp.’

  Chapter Two

  The phone rang. Martyna jerked her eyes open and pounced on it. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Hey!’

  She instantly recognized the voice of her fiancé, Brett Coleridge. Her firm grip lessened. ‘Say, sweetheart. What a surprise – a wonderful surprise.’

  Snapping turtle had changed to purring pussy cat. Even her eyes became more catlike as she smiled.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you. I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you.’

  ‘Brett, that is so cool. Not as good as having you here physically – if you know what I mean – but good all the same. I love your voice. I love your body, but not necessarily in that order. Speak to me. Turn me on.’

  She stroked the receiver as she spoke and curled her legs beneath her. Damn being late for a scene. It served Boris right if he got uptight and had to take a few pills. He should have had done with the woman and her phone, told her to get off the set. The woman had upset her. Boris had upset her.

  Brett was the tonic she needed. He deserved a portion of her time. And encouragement – linked with anticipation of course. Keep him panting, keep him interested. Brett was rich. Brett had inherited a banking company and shipping line from his father. Gold-plated beefcake – the best kind to have.

  ‘O … K…’ He said it slowly, just like he did when he told her the rest of the stuff he said he would do to her – and with her – once they were together.

  She laughed frequently and throatily as he spoke. Besides being rich, Brett Coleridge was sexually adventurous.

  ‘I’m not religious at all,’ he had said to her on the first occasion they had met. ‘So forget sticking to the missionary position. I’m a guy with a fertile imagination. Hope you don’t mind that.’

  She had wanted to bed him there and then, but reasoned that she’d do better to keep him hanging on. A night in bed with a rich man was one thing. A wedding band and a share of his fortune was something else.

  So she had purred and pouted over her glass of wine. ‘Practice makes perfect so they say. With you holding my hand, I dare say I’ll cope.’

  She smiled at the thought of that memory. A true actress, she’d milked the girl-next-door image for all she was worth. Not that Brett had expected her to be a virgin when they’d first met; not in this day and age.

  She fingered the phone as she spoke to him. ‘You certainly know how to turn a girl on, Brett. So when can I expect you to flick my switch?’

  He made a low contented sound like a lion stretching its whole body. ‘Sooner than you think, honey. Sooner than you think.’

  ‘How’s New York?’

  ‘Throbbing.’

  ‘Just the city?’

  He laughed. ‘Hey, baby … what do you think?’

  ‘I think I could do with more than thick underwear to warm me up.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you’re doing being Jane Austen. Piece of cake, huh?’

  Martyna growled. ‘Give me street talk any day. Will you listen to this?’

  She picked up the script. ‘Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Sweet Jane didn’t like the Bath social scene that much. Called it “glaring white”. I suppose we’d say that it was too in your face. Jane wasn’t much for nightclubbing and dancing till dawn. In fact, I think her legs were superglued together.’

  Brett’s laugh was low and dirty. ‘Just goes to prove that she never met the right man. I could have gone where no man ever went before.’

  ‘Or after,’ Martyna retorted.

  If Brett could have seen her face, he would have loved the jealous pout and the deep frown. Brett got off on stuff like that. But he couldn’t see it and Martyna was thankful for small mercies.

  They murmured ‘ciao’ down the phone at each other before dialling off.

  Martyna lay back against the cushions, smiling. Someone had told her years ago about cosmic ordering; that is the will to pray for and believe that you would get what you asked for. In her case the cosmos had gone into overdrive. She’d got the looks, which helped if your talent was only average. The looks got you extra coaching if you had the money. Stir in a little luck and the right kind of backers – those with the cash and an eye for a beautiful girl – and you had the recipe for success. She’d got what she wanted and more. The film set was like a drug; she could never get enough of the buzz it gave her.

  She was like a queen bee at the centre of the hive, the workers buzzing around to do her bidding. Except for that cow Scheherazade!

  A terrible shiver ran over her. There was no way she could go out in front of the camera feeling as she did.

  ‘Right. Calm down. Close your eyes.’

  She did what her shrink had told her to do. She brought her fear out in the open.

  ‘Everyone has secrets.’ She repeated it three times just as he’d told her to do.

  The words were out, the fear was out, but a silent truth lurked in her mind. Some have darker secrets than others.

  Shaking the thought from her head, she picked up the phone. ‘Boris? I haven’t had any breakfast yet.’

  At the other end, Boris rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll get a tray sent over to you.’

  ‘And don’t send me that crap from the dog-van caterer. I don’t eat crap. I want breakfast from the Royal Crescent Hotel. Get someone to fetch it for me.’

  ‘Sweetie, I could get a car brought round and you could go…’

  ‘No! I’ve got work to do, sweetie! I have lines to learn, costume to attend to!’

  She cut the line before Boris had time to point out that breakfast from the

  Royal Crescent

  was likely to be cold by the time it got to her. On replacing the phone into his pocket, he caught Scheherazade studying his expression.

  Boris flung down the script he’d been reading. ‘That woman. I should have known better than to cast her as Jane Austen after the way she behaved on the last shoot I did with her. I find myself wishing that she’ll trip over the hem of her dress and break a leg – literally. And now she wants breakfast – from the Royal Crescent Hotel no less.’

  ‘So I gather. And our divine superstar won’t get off her butt and go there?’

  He shook his head forlornly. ‘No. She’s in a cocky mood and wants waiting on. I think she’s been speaking to her fiancé. She always wants everything her own way after speaking to him. I think it’s got something to do with the jangle of money,’ he added bitterly. ‘He owns the production company – if only partially – and she owns him.’

  ‘That shyster!’

  Scheherazade Parker-Henson was scathing but pretty damned accurate in her opinions.

  ‘Martyna knows best,’ said Boris accompanying his bitterly spoken words with another pained rolling of his eyes.

  Scheherazade patted his shoulder. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll sort her breakfast out. She’ll never know the difference. Got a spare script? Mine’s disappeared.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He handed her a spare copy, taken from the three he needed for himself and the assistant director. Two was enough.

  Left alone for once, Boris rubbed at his brow. Hassle, he thought. This business is all bloody hassle. Why don’t I accept that offer to lecture at UCLA? He knew the answer of course. Going back to lecturing in California carried a death sentence. He’d never get to direct such a plum project and a big st
ar ever again. He had to hold on.

  Just to confirm it, the wardrobe woman came along and asked if he’d borrowed her camera. His stance was enough to confirm that he had not. She went off muttering something about thieves and crooks. He couldn’t catch it. He didn’t care. Filming was running behind schedule. Heads would roll. He hoped they wouldn’t include his.

  Brett Coleridge was in bed, sandwiched between a blonde and a brunette. He stretched like a satisfied tomcat; life was good. The company was good. The king-sized bed was situated in such a way that he had a panoramic view of the city skyline. Red, white, blue and green strobes pierced the sky from the highest buildings. If there were stars, they were obliterated by chequer boards of light – like an upended dominoes set with diamonds.

  ‘Girls, I need to stretch my arms.’

  He arched his back. The girl with dark hair raised her head from his right arm. The blonde did the same from his left. He stretched his arms above his head and looked at the ceiling. The girls stroked his torso all the way down to the tree line. He groaned with pleasure and closed his eyes. Life was good when you had money.

  ‘Off again soon, Brett baby?’

  Pools of velvet brown looked up at him. He smiled and wound his arms back around both her and the other girl and let out a deep satisfied sigh. ‘Right on, baby. That’s the great thing with a jet-setting lifestyle. You can compartmentalize your life. Family one place, business interests all around, and fun where you can find it. It’s the only way to live. That way you’re never tied down.’

  The blonde scratched circles in his chest hair with wine red fingernails. ‘How do I get not to be tied down?’

  He tapped her nose. ‘Take a tip from me. Marry a rich man. Work on your back.’

  Chapter Three

  The phone rang. Martyna jerked her eyes open and pounced on it. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Hey!’

  She instantly recognized the voice of her fiancé, Brett Coleridge. Her firm grip lessened. ‘Say, sweetheart. What a surprise – a wonderful surprise.’

  Snapping turtle had changed to purring pussy cat. Even her eyes became more catlike as she smiled.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you. I wanted you to know that I was thinking of you.’

  ‘Brett, that is so cool. Not as good as having you here physically – if you know what I mean – but good all the same. I love your voice. I love your body, but not necessarily in that order. Speak to me. Turn me on.’

  She stroked the receiver as she spoke and curled her legs beneath her. Damn being late for a scene. It served Boris right if he got uptight and had to take a few pills. He should have had done with the woman and her phone, told her to get off the set. The woman had upset her. Boris had upset her.

  Brett was the tonic she needed. He deserved a portion of her time. And encouragement – linked with anticipation of course. Keep him panting, keep him interested. Brett was rich. Brett had inherited a banking company and shipping line from his father. Gold-plated beefcake – the best kind to have.

  ‘O … K…’ He said it slowly, just like he did when he told her the rest of the stuff he said he would do to her – and with her – once they were together.

  She laughed frequently and throatily as he spoke. Besides being rich, Brett Coleridge was sexually adventurous.

  ‘I’m not religious at all,’ he had said to her on the first occasion they had met. ‘So forget sticking to the missionary position. I’m a guy with a fertile imagination. Hope you don’t mind that.’

  She had wanted to bed him there and then, but reasoned that she’d do better to keep him hanging on. A night in bed with a rich man was one thing. A wedding band and a share of his fortune was something else.

  So she had purred and pouted over her glass of wine. ‘Practice makes perfect so they say. With you holding my hand, I dare say I’ll cope.’

  She smiled at the thought of that memory. A true actress, she’d milked the girl-next-door image for all she was worth. Not that Brett had expected her to be a virgin when they’d first met; not in this day and age.

  She fingered the phone as she spoke to him. ‘You certainly know how to turn a girl on, Brett. So when can I expect you to flick my switch?’

  He made a low contented sound like a lion stretching its whole body. ‘Sooner than you think, honey. Sooner than you think.’

  ‘How’s New York?’

  ‘Throbbing.’

  ‘Just the city?’

  He laughed. ‘Hey, baby … what do you think?’

  ‘I think I could do with more than thick underwear to warm me up.’

  ‘I won’t ask how you’re doing being Jane Austen. Piece of cake, huh?’

  Martyna growled. ‘Give me street talk any day. Will you listen to this?’

  She picked up the script. ‘Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Sweet Jane didn’t like the Bath social scene that much. Called it “glaring white”. I suppose we’d say that it was too in your face. Jane wasn’t much for nightclubbing and dancing till dawn. In fact, I think her legs were superglued together.’

  Brett’s laugh was low and dirty. ‘Just goes to prove that she never met the right man. I could have gone where no man ever went before.’

  ‘Or after,’ Martyna retorted.

  If Brett could have seen her face, he would have loved the jealous pout and the deep frown. Brett got off on stuff like that. But he couldn’t see it and Martyna was thankful for small mercies.

  They murmured ‘ciao’ down the phone at each other before dialling off.

  Martyna lay back against the cushions, smiling. Someone had told her years ago about cosmic ordering; that is the will to pray for and believe that you would get what you asked for. In her case the cosmos had gone into overdrive. She’d got the looks, which helped if your talent was only average. The looks got you extra coaching if you had the money. Stir in a little luck and the right kind of backers – those with the cash and an eye for a beautiful girl – and you had the recipe for success. She’d got what she wanted and more. The film set was like a drug; she could never get enough of the buzz it gave her.

  She was like a queen bee at the centre of the hive, the workers buzzing around to do her bidding. Except for that cow Scheherazade!

  A terrible shiver ran over her. There was no way she could go out in front of the camera feeling as she did.

  ‘Right. Calm down. Close your eyes.’

  She did what her shrink had told her to do. She brought her fear out in the open.

  ‘Everyone has secrets.’ She repeated it three times just as he’d told her to do.

  The words were out, the fear was out, but a silent truth lurked in her mind. Some have darker secrets than others.

  Shaking the thought from her head, she picked up the phone. ‘Boris? I haven’t had any breakfast yet.’

  At the other end, Boris rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll get a tray sent over to you.’

  ‘And don’t send me that crap from the dog-van caterer. I don’t eat crap. I want breakfast from the Royal Crescent Hotel. Get someone to fetch it for me.’

  ‘Sweetie, I could get a car brought round and you could go…’

  ‘No! I’ve got work to do, sweetie! I have lines to learn, costume to attend to!’

  She cut the line before Boris had time to point out that breakfast from the

  Royal Crescent

  was likely to be cold by the time it got to her. On replacing the phone into his pocket, he caught Scheherazade studying his expression.

  Boris flung down the script he’d been reading. ‘That woman. I should have known better than to cast her as Jane Austen after the way she behaved on the last shoot I did with her. I find myself wishing that she’ll trip over the hem of her dress and break a leg – literally. And now she wants breakfast – from the Royal Crescent Hotel no less.’

  ‘So I gather. And our divine superstar won’t g
et off her butt and go there?’

  He shook his head forlornly. ‘No. She’s in a cocky mood and wants waiting on. I think she’s been speaking to her fiancé. She always wants everything her own way after speaking to him. I think it’s got something to do with the jangle of money,’ he added bitterly. ‘He owns the production company – if only partially – and she owns him.’

  ‘That shyster!’

  Scheherazade Parker-Henson was scathing but pretty damned accurate in her opinions.

  ‘Martyna knows best,’ said Boris accompanying his bitterly spoken words with another pained rolling of his eyes.

  Scheherazade patted his shoulder. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll sort her breakfast out. She’ll never know the difference. Got a spare script? Mine’s disappeared.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He handed her a spare copy, taken from the three he needed for himself and the assistant director. Two was enough.

  Left alone for once, Boris rubbed at his brow. Hassle, he thought. This business is all bloody hassle. Why don’t I accept that offer to lecture at UCLA? He knew the answer of course. Going back to lecturing in California carried a death sentence. He’d never get to direct such a plum project and a big star ever again. He had to hold on.

  Just to confirm it, the wardrobe woman came along and asked if he’d borrowed her camera. His stance was enough to confirm that he had not. She went off muttering something about thieves and crooks. He couldn’t catch it. He didn’t care. Filming was running behind schedule. Heads would roll. He hoped they wouldn’t include his.

  Brett Coleridge was in bed, sandwiched between a blonde and a brunette. He stretched like a satisfied tomcat; life was good. The company was good. The king-sized bed was situated in such a way that he had a panoramic view of the city skyline. Red, white, blue and green strobes pierced the sky from the highest buildings. If there were stars, they were obliterated by chequer boards of light – like an upended dominoes set with diamonds.

  ‘Girls, I need to stretch my arms.’

  He arched his back. The girl with dark hair raised her head from his right arm. The blonde did the same from his left. He stretched his arms above his head and looked at the ceiling. The girls stroked his torso all the way down to the tree line. He groaned with pleasure and closed his eyes. Life was good when you had money.