It was a head-swelling moment; Honey’s would swell if she pulled this off and beat Steve Doherty to an arrest. Dick Richards was full of his own self-importance. He was dying to tell someone all he knew. And she was here to jot it down. She always carried a notebook and pencil.
‘Not that I saw anyone going in there who shouldn’t be going in. The make-up girls, the second director’s assistant, the sound technician, the wardrobe mistress and the continuity girl. Everyone you’d expect to see.’ He leaned over his drop-down counter. ‘Could be any one of ’em. They’ve all got an axe to grind, if you know what I mean.’
Dick Richards looming over her like that made her feel like a frightened gerbil confronted with a ten-foot grizzly.
‘Your evidence could be crucial,’ she said, taking a mighty stab at regaining her courage.
‘You’d think the police would notice that!’
Dick Richards was smarting that he hadn’t been the first to be picked out to give evidence. It appeared that Martyna Manderley wasn’t the only prima donna on the set!
When he rested a beefy forearm on the counter flap, the warped wood groaned in protest.
‘I’m glad to see somebody’s on the ball. Tell you what I’ll do,’ he said, glancing around him in a shifty manner that reminded Honey of Victorian melodrama. ‘I’ll write down everyone I remember going in there, plus – plus,’ he repeated with a heightened degree of self-importance, ‘I will personally note interesting items regarding their relationship with Martyna, plus their probable motive. How does that sound? We’ll meet for coffee. How’s that for you?’
‘Great. Include the friendly natives in your list, will you?’
He pulled a so-so kind of face. ‘Not sure about the friendly bit. I mean no one was that friendly with Martyna. She didn’t want them to be. Thought she was a cut above the crowd, if you know what I mean. Bit below them now, ain’t she? Or she will be – once she’s in the ground.’
His comment was so matter of fact it made her blood turn cold. He obviously hadn’t liked Martyna, but then, she countered, it seemed that neither had anybody else.
Chapter Eight
A day later, gone ten at night, Honey was doing some floor exercises in an effort to iron out disappointments as well as her body. To start with, Steve Doherty had not yet kept his promise to drop round. Under the circumstances it wasn’t that surprising. However, Steve being a dutiful officer of the law did nothing to placate her own selfish reasons for wanting him to herself.
Ab crunch after ab crunch! Wobbly bits were aching and so was her mind. She thought about Steve. Where would they be a year from now? They were making progress, though only slowly.
As for her wobbly bits; where would they be this time next year? Consigned to history? Hoping was one thing. Achieving was another. She liked food and at this time of year it was hard to resist.
Thinking of food inevitably led to thoughts of Dick Richards.
He had a strange way with words. He was fine when he was talking about food – his food of course prepared by his skilful hands. Perhaps it was something to do with all that steam and grease he inhaled, thought Honey as she struggled to do her thirty-ninth ab crunch.
The fortieth was even harder; her abdominals were refusing to be pushed any further and, quite frankly, she didn’t blame them.
She lay flat for a moment, one foot resting on her bent knee, staring at the ceiling. This was about getting her breath back. Christ, she thought. Imagine doing five hours of this torture per day. That’s what movie stars did – or at least that’s what the likes of Hello! and OK! reported. How the hell did they have time for anything else?
Her phone played ‘Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead’ – just a little snippet she particularly liked from The Wizard of Oz. Her phone was lying on the floor beside her.
‘Hi,’ she answered.
‘Hi.’
It was Steve. She lay flat on the carpet and looked upwards.
A butterfly with tortoiseshell wings was beating its way across to a window and the deceiving winter sunshine.
‘Sorry I didn’t get round to see you. I’ll try again tonight.’
‘I might be busy.’
‘Are you?’
He didn’t sound adequately perturbed.
‘Would it worry you?’
‘I’d be disappointed, but I know what a busy lady you are. If I don’t make it, can you give me a thought before you drop off to sleep?’
‘While I’m in bed?’
‘Why not? Dream a little. Fantasize in fact. And don’t forget the dab of perfume behind each ear.’
It was quite a suggestion if some of the fantasies she’d already had about Steve were anything to go by.
‘I’ll do my best. Shall I stick to highly romantic or indulge in the erotic?’
‘Go with the flow and keep everything warm.’
The butterfly was still fluttering around after he’d disconnected. The heat rising from the radiators that lined the walls had fooled it into thinking it was May instead of February. Poor thing. Just out of its chrysalis and about to get its butt frozen off.
She raised an arm and waved at it. ‘Hey, little guy. You don’t want to go out there. Trust me.’
The butterfly paid no attention of course.
She let her arm fall back above her head. Yesterday had been cold. Anyone with any sense would have stayed indoors, snuggled up before a roaring fire.
Once her muscles had stopped complaining, she rolled over on to her stomach and up on to her knees. You were supposed to take things slowly after exercise – something to do with the blood pooling in your arteries.
She was still dwelling on the subject of blood when she got in to the shower. Not her own blood but the blood on the script. She shuddered at the thought of it and didn’t warm up until she was dressed and looking fit to be seen.
While delving around in her walk-in closet, she thought about the Victorian corset her mother had borrowed. The item was beautiful and very fragile. She didn’t like lending it. Give it another two days. After that she’d remind her mother to bring it back.
At least it wouldn’t be wasted. Most of her collection was now kept in a military chest in her closet and that was where the corset would return; once it had done its work on the guy her mother had in mind.
She pondered on that. Was that what had happened with the bloodstained script? Did it have to be returned somewhere? Had there been an argument over the size of the part and/or the amount of dialogue? She’d heard that big stars sometimes cut up real rough over scripts. Depending on their profile, they could have their own way with most things. Had Martyna Manderley belittled a scriptwriter to breaking point? Had the murderer got angry, lashed out with the hatpin, tried to mop things up, then because they were late for the meeting had panicked? Dashing out of the trailer, still grasping the script until they left the script on the chair – the exact chair she chose to sit down on? Or was the murderer cooler than that? Had she been identified as a worthy suspect by this man? She called a halt to this train of thought pretty abruptly. Why was she thinking the murderer was a man? Women worked and got big promotions in movie-making nowadays. There were bound to be rivalries; bound to be blood on the carpet – even on the script.
Doherty phoned back and suggested lunch at a little cafe called Blanc et Noir. She heard the disappointment in his voice when she told him she had a prearranged date.
‘Who with?’
‘That’s hardly your business.’
Initially she hadn’t been planning to tell him that her lunch date was Dick Richards. It didn’t hurt to throw a little jealousy around. Her conscience pricked her.
‘Dick Richards wants me to meet him for coffee. He’s miffed that you didn’t ask him questions right away. He thinks he’s very important.’
‘If he wants to talk with you, that’s OK by me. I’ll be round later to hear what he had to say.’
‘Very masterful, but …’
Doherty put t
he phone down on her before she could finish her sentence.
The cafe where she had arranged to meet Dick Richards was a favourite of hers. It had the right ambience, the right food, and was situated in a cobbled courtyard not far from Bath Abbey. On summer days it was pleasant to sit outside at a green metal table covered with a green checked tablecloth. At this time of year, it was a dash inside before twelve o’clock if you wanted to stay warm.
Snap-happy tourists hugged the pavements, forcing her to sidestep on to the road. She thanked her lucky stars that the office and shop workers hadn’t spilled out just yet. A seat inside the cafe was not yet out of the question.
She marched crisply on, sidestepping a Japanese couple with their state-of-the-art video cameras, an American group with their concise list of things to do and places to see, and some Germans with their surprising lack of formality.
The case for the prosecution looked pretty straightforward. Martyna Manderley had a less-than-perfect working relationship with the production team.
Her musings on murder were suddenly disturbed by a clipboard. A small woman dressed head to toe in lavender muslin was shoving it in the general direction of her nostrils.
‘I beg your forgiveness for interrupting your sojourn on this chilly but bright morning. I put before you a petition to halt the filming of historical drama in Bath. This particularly applies to dramas based on the work and the life of Jane Austen. Those of us imbued with a great liking, nay, a great love for Jane Austen and her novels, have decided to take a stand and point out to those who would think otherwise, that this is not Disneyland!’
Honey considered the woman’s language. Had she escaped from a museum?
There was only one possibility. The woman was a bookworm who read one author above all others.
‘Ah! You read a lot of Jane Austen, I take it?’
‘Indeed I do, my dear friend. Jane Austen’s pen created the greatest romantic novels ever written. No one has surpassed her insight, her gift for emotion. Indeed, no one has equalled her grasp of the genre.’
With relation to the mention of Disneyland, the quip that she didn’t know Goofy and Donald Duck lived in Bath stayed silent on Honey’s tongue.
Instead she asked, ‘You dislike films being made about Jane Austen?’
‘Especially Jane Austen.’
She stressed the ‘especially’, stretching the word out like a piece of tight elastic.
Honey stated the obvious. ‘She’s dead, you know?’
The woman raised one eyebrow and fixed her with slate grey eyes.
‘I know very well that England’s most wonderful literary genius is dead. Dear Jane has been dead for years. But not forgotten!’ she exclaimed, raising a warning finger three centimetres from the tip of Honey’s nose.
‘I meant the actress who was playing her.’
The woman’s deep-set eyes seemed suddenly in danger of exploding from their sockets. ‘One would not wish to be cruel with one’s words, but some of dear Jane’s devoted followers view the departure of Miss Manderley from the role as something akin to divine justice.’
Honey gulped. Muggers and murderers were dangerous enough, but a Jane Austen devotee with petitioning intent might prove unpredictable.
Honey did a quick sidestep; not quick enough.
‘Sign!’
Clipboard and pen were thrust against her chest.
She eyed both with fearful eyes. Sign? Should she? She decided she would. She told herself that nobody was likely to take any notice of it. The whole thing would probably end up on a bonfire in some city councillor’s backyard.
Filming, like tourism, brought money to the city; people saw films and noticed the background which in turn fuelled more tourism. A simple equation.
‘There was only one redeeming feature to the whole production; the quality of the food they served on the film set was of sufficient merit,’ the woman said suddenly.
Frowning, Honey gave her back the clipboard. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I partook of a number of quite delicious dishes while waiting around to be called.’
‘You went on set?’
‘I was taken on as a consultant on the life and times of dear Jane. I also took advantage of a little extra income by enrolling as an extra. That, my dear, is how much I wished to keep an eye on what was going on. Someone has to protect the great heritage Jane Austen left us. It fell upon my shoulders to be her defender, and defend her I did!’
Honey’s eyes flicked from the woman to her clipboard and back again. ‘How come you did that and now you’re doing this?’
The woman’s eyes glittered. ‘I was ordered off the set. The big star decided that my constant remarks regarding historical detail was injurious to artistic expression.’
Honey thought about it. Could this woman be a killer or was gathering names her only stab at revenge. She decided she wasn’t capable of murder and made to carry on to the cafe.
‘I understand she got stabbed with her own hatpin,’ the woman called after her.
Honey stopped and turned round. ‘That’s right.’
‘If they’d listened to my greater wisdom, she might not have been stabbed. Women didn’t wear hatpins back then. Wrong period. Wrong kind of bonnets.’
Chapter Nine
Dick Richards came in on the dot of eleven. The cafe boasted an old-fashioned brass bell above its dark green door. It jangled as the door was pushed open. Dick Richards was here!
His gaze swept over the green wooden chairs and the round tables topped with red-and-white gingham.
She waved.
He nodded an acknowledgement that he’d seen her, but still he looked around him, his keen eyes taking in the decor, the table placements and the three chalkboard menus hanging on the wall. The middle chalkboard was the biggest and listed the main courses. The ones on either side were smaller – one listed starters, the other desserts.
She asked him if any filming was going on. He said it was not. The extras had been told to go home so his hotpot, pies, and vegetarian alternatives were not required. He was pretty huffy about it.
He perused the menu before sitting down.
‘No steak and kidney pie,’ he said loudly. ‘You can always tell a good chef by the quality of his pastry. Did you know that?’
Indeed she did. Smudger was full of the same crap.
‘No,’ she lied, smiling at the same time. First things first. Do not alienate this man. Chefs were touchy types and had access to very sharp knives. ‘Did you bring your list?’
‘I did,’ he said gruffly, adjusting his position as he pushed a meaty paw into his right-hand pocket.
Honey felt her heart pounding as he pulled out a multi-coloured notebook. Dick was not the type she would have partnered with a multi-coloured notebook – plus a pink pencil – but it took all sorts.
Her stomach rumbled. If she was going to do this with a clear head, she had to concentrate. Food would help.
‘So what do you fancy to eat?’ she asked brightly.
He sniffily perused the menu. ‘I wouldn’t get away with muck like this,’ he said loudly. He said it just as a waiter walked past carrying a plated baguette steaming with garlic butter and king prawns.
The smell was hypnotic.
‘I think I’ll have the prawns,’ said Honey.
He grunted something incomprehensible before continuing with his denigration of the menu. ‘Venison sausages with sweet red onions. Bought in, no doubt.’
‘I don’t think so …’
‘Cornish crab with pea soup. Huh! Tinned! And if it’s not tinned, it won’t be a patch on mine. Catherine Zeta Jones loved my soup, she did. Asked me for the recipe in fact.’
‘So she could cook it for Michael when she got home?’
‘Exactly!’
‘So!’ she said, before he reached the desserts. ‘We’ve got time for a chat. What do you have? Who do you think are the front runners?’ She looked pointedly at the notebook.
Hon
ey waited patiently. Her lips smiled in an unhurried, interested manner. Only her hands might have given her true feelings away – if Dick had cared to look – which he didn’t. Dick was too wrapped up in Dick.
After carefully shaking out the gingham napkin, he tucked it into his shirt collar. Once that was done, he picked up the notebook using his thumb to reach the right page. He cleared his throat as though he were Pavarotti making ready prior to a performance.
‘Scheherazade Parker-Henson.’
Honey ran her eyes down the menu. ‘Is that a foreign dish?’
‘Senior make-up artist. I saw her go in.’
‘Ah! I wonder she didn’t murder her parents for giving her a name like that. No matter though.’ Honey got out her own notebook. ‘At about what time?’
‘Six forty-five.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Positive. That’s the time I put the flapjacks and black pudding in the oven. I cook them separately to the sausages and bacon, which I cook in the oven first then transfer to the griddle. That’s how I get the sausages so juicy,’ he said. ‘The secret to cooking a good sausage is to give it a good pricking first.’
Honey cleared her throat. ‘So I hear. Now, this Scheherazade – bit of a mouthful that name.’
‘Double-barrelled always means upper class, Mrs Driver.’
‘Call me Honey.’
‘Honey. Honey,’ he repeated. She could tell he liked her name. That was something.
She primed her ears as she scribbled. Dick was in full flow.
‘Very upmarket family. Landed gentry. Acres of land and a stately home in Shropshire. You get good produce from Shropshire, you know. If you want good and fresh, Shropshire’s the place to get it. Especially asparagus. They do very nice asparagus.’
‘Horsey type?’
‘You could say that.’
Their meals came. Honey tucked in. Dick eyed the bowl of lime green creaminess disdainfully before picking up his spoon.
‘Hmm. I needed this,’ said Honey, munching.
Dick called the waiter over.
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 5