She made a comment that it was only a plastic fork.
Martyna Manderley was used to the best. The plastic fork was the only item removed that did not fit into her lifestyle.
He rang Honey’s mobile phone, warned her to let the police deal with Ryker. She cut him off before he had chance to say that he believed her now. He needed to find out where she was going …
Chapter Thirty-nine
She learned from the real Richard Richards that Ryker had bought himself a small hotdog trailer, which he intended locating at the side of a busy road.
‘He’s had it sign-painted,’ said Dick. ‘You can’t miss it. It’s called Begone Ronnie Two Star.’
Honey frowned at the phone. ‘That’s a bit of a mouthful.’
‘Egon Ronay?’
Honey nodded. ‘I get the picture. Where can I find him?’
She felt nervous asking. He was bound to say that Ryker had hauled his trailer off somewhere to do business at some highway pit stop. Her car was blocked in at a city car park and Smudger’s vehicle was in Jones the Engine’s garage following a fracas with a cast-iron bollard. That left Mary Jane and her pale pink Cadillac coupe, circa 1961. Driving with Mary Jane could send her totally round the bend.
‘Last I heard he was off buying equipment in the Kitchen Shop.’
It was music to her ears. The shop was in Quiet Street. Going there with Smudger in tow was a bit risky. Chefs are like kids in a chocolate shop when confronted with brand new kitchenalia. But needs must.
She spotted Ted Ryker’s big frame eyeing up a display of extractor fans. Even from this distance she could smell his greasiness. Extractor fans in static kitchens, such as hotels, were great big things meant to suck up heat and grease. Mobile ones were supposed to do the same, but were not so efficient. The smell of grease lingered on clothes, hair and skin.
And that was why the atomizer had been tipped over and the heater had been blowing cold air! He’d wanted to disguise the smell. Smell grease and you’d think Ted Ryker.
Overcome with the possibilities, she paused by a display of copper-bottomed saucepans. Her shocked expression was reflected in their shininess.
Doherty was wrong. She was right.
The urge to accuse was too strong.
You did it! That’s what she wanted to say, but wouldn’t. She had to shout something that would put him off guard, something that would throw him off balance, perhaps draw out his inner violence.
‘You’re a lousy cook, Ted Ryker! Your gravy’s lumpy! Your pies are indigestible. Basically, you can’t fry an egg without breaking the shell!’
Breaking the shell? What sort of nonsense was that?
Ryker looked round. So did the other customers. They probably thought her a bit mad. But she didn’t care. The look on Ryker’s face was worth it.
Honey gulped. Surprise would have been a good result, but this was more than that. Ryker’s eyes became hard peas in deep wells as his brows knitted and his red face contorted. His bottom lip hung wet and shiny, exposing his gums. This was Doctor Jekyll turning into Mr Hyde; horror film makeover exceptional.
‘What did you say?’ His lower lip quivered.
Honey recalled once meeting a bulldog who did that. An unfortunate meeting. She’d been eating a ham sandwich on a park bench. Said bulldog had obviously been hungry. Lip had drooped prior to snaffling her sandwich. Ryker wasn’t going to wolf down her sandwich, even though he his bottom lip was drooping, just like that bulldog …
It could be suicide, but she forced out a few more culinary insults.
‘Your rissoles are rotten and your flapjacks are about as tasty as corn plasters!’
Suddenly she heard a rumbling sound. She knew it was coming from Ryker. His shoulders were hunched, his body stiff. The rumbling resembled a noise a volcano makes just before it blows its top. Common sense told her to run. The other customers, aware that something odd was happening, had thought better about staying to purchase that pie edger or handsome tortoiseshell and chromium wine bottle opener. They’d manage with the old ones, thank you very much.
Heart racing, she stood her ground. By instinct alone, she knew that Smudger was standing behind her, though she couldn’t tell where.
If she had been able to turn round, she would have seen him hiding behind a dummy. The dummy was standing on a foot-high plinth. It was attired in a complete set of chef’s whites and brandishing a rolling pin in one hand and a large whisk in the other.
‘You should not say that!’ said Ryker. Each word coincided with a shake of his head. ‘Take it back!’
Was she hell!
She turned on the turbo control.
‘Your food’s rubbish! Martyna thought it was rubbish. She told you so, didn’t she? She told you your food wasn’t fit for pigs! And you weren’t having that, were you? So you killed her. You stabbed her with a hatpin because she criticized your food.’
‘She had no taste!’ Ryker shouted. ‘And she was nasty. A stupid, nasty cow. She didn’t deserve to …’
‘Live?’
Honey knew she’d inserted the right word. Martyna Manderley had not deserved to live because she’d insulted Ryker’s food.
A member of staff shouted for the police to be called. Another assistant, who seemed a little less in tune with the situation, told them to leave if they weren’t going to buy anything.
Ryker didn’t seem to hear.
‘I made ’er a special pie. Poussin and orange. She said, what did I think she was? A bleedin’ peasant? Laughed at me, she did. Laughed in my face and said my cooking was crap.’ A glazed shininess flashed in his eyes as he shuffled menacingly towards her.
Honey swallowed what felt like an iceberg. Obviously her blood temperature was plunging to sub-zero. Fear was cold and hot and well … dead, plain frightening!
Ryker’s face was grizzly, a face glimpsed in a dozen nightmares. Horror of horrors, this was the face Martyna Manderley had seen before she died. Total, uncontrolled anger! And all because she’d criticized his cooking.
Honey offered up a little prayer to the god of kitchenalia. With a bit of luck, the Kitchen Shop’s knife department was somewhere over her side of the shop. If it was closer to him, she was dead meat.
Though penned in by shelves and all manner of cookery utensils, Honey took backward steps until she couldn’t take any more. Metal things were prodding her back. Things hanging from overhead tumbled and tinkled around her head. Worst of all, the hem of her skirt caught on a skillet handle. Drat and double drat! That was the trouble with a skirt cut on the bias; it swirled more than a straight skirt or even an A-line. The skillets were displayed on a wrought-iron tower. Tower and kindred skillets toppled over. Cast iron hitting tiled floor drowned out the sound of running feet. Members of staff who had remained to observe were now quitting the building.
Ryker grabbed a jumbo-sized spatula. It made a whooshing sound as he swiped it through the air. Using that same swiping action, he took off the head of a mannequin that was wearing the latest black and white harlequin trousers and a tailored chef’s jacket. His eyes flicked from dummy to Honey; no prizes for who was next to have their head swiped off!
The end was nigh. She had reached the point of no return, backed up against a portable gas barbecue. Her heel caught in the mesh of a particularly handsome grill pan that had fallen to the floor at the same time as the skillets.
She thought about bending down to retrieve one of the fallen items to use as a weapon. If she timed it right, she might be able to bash him over the head. If she didn’t then she could use it as body armour. Not that it would do much good. The pan was a bit on the small side and likely to cover only one breast; the rest of her body would be at his mercy.
And where was Smudger?
No time to check. Think positive. Think self-defence.
Did she have time to bend down? Could she reach?
The arm she reached out with seemed inordinately heavy. She looked at her elbow. A muslin bag containing boxe
d weights for an old style kitchen scale had hooked itself on to her sleeve.
Damn! Why did so much kitchen stuff get in your way when you weren’t even looking for it?
If she swung it …
Too low. But the rolling pin wasn’t. The dummy chef standing on the plinth raised a polycarbon arm. The rolling pin went up. The rolling pin went down.
Honey heard the sound of hardwood thudding on bone as the rolling pin cracked into the back of Ryker’s head. He groaned, staggered, but didn’t go down.
Smudger tried another strike; Ryker found enough presence of mind to parry the blow with his spatula.
Honey found herself praying that his strength wasn’t returning – though it seemed it was.
But Smudger was not finished. Snatching the mega-size egg whisk from his mannequin colleague, he shouted, ‘On guard!’
The two men circled each other, one armed with a spatula, the other with the unfair advantage of one rolling pin and an egg whisk.
Ryker swung his arm.
Smudger parried.
His face contorted with violent intent, Ryker grabbed a skillet. A skillet could deliver a hefty whack, but it had its drawbacks. Ryker realized this when the hinged handle caused it to fold in two, trapping his fingers.
Smudger caught Ryker’s ear with the egg whisk.
Honey flattened herself as best she could. At the same time she had to ask herself: what was it about Smudger and egg whisks? This wasn’t the first time she’d known him use the humble item as an offensive weapon.
Ted Ryker, doyen of the mobile catering unit, blinked angry eyes. His complexion turned an unhealthy shade of red. His wide mouth curled back from his lips like a rabid dog.
‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’ he growled.
Smudger, the brilliant, courageous and slightly unpredictable chef, had a ready answer.
‘A better chef than you, mate. A bloody much better chef than you.’
Unbeknown to either Honey or Smudger, what he said was the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Not that they fully realized the implications at the time. Not until half a minute later when Ryker’s redness turned a similar shade to a Victoria plum. His lips turned speedwell blue.
The spatula clattered to the floor. The fingers that had held it now clawed at Ted Ryker’s broad chest.
‘Aaaagh!’
Ted Ryker followed the spatula to the floor, though not nearly so noisily.
Honey’s jaw dropped and didn’t firm up until she gasped a heartfelt, ‘Oh, crikey!’
A few members of staff and even a few customers began to creep back into the store. Someone even asked her if it was possible to purchase a pair of sugar tongs. Honey explained that she was phoning for an ambulance and could they please wait a moment. The customer, a lady of advanced years and a genteel-looking persuasion, looked uncomprehending at first until she noticed Ted Ryker lying on the floor.
‘My goodness. What brought that on? I know,’ she said, nodding as though she’d majored in something complicated – like brain surgery. ‘Smoking. Smoking has a lot to do with getting ill. And alcohol of course. Alcohol is a very big problem so I hear.’
‘He’s been hit on the head,’ said Honey to the emergency services. ‘With a rolling pin … no … it didn’t belong to anyone. It was part of a display. A chef was holding it … well, no, not a real one …’
The old dear requiring the sugar tongs presumed she was talking to her.
‘Really?’
Her eyes opened wide, then blinked at the dummy chef from behind a pert pair of gold-rimmed spectacles. The fact that it was wearing prescribed whites and stood upright, obviously threw things out of balance. She wasn’t to know that the real chef who had done the dirty deed was kneeling down beside Ryker.
‘My, my. These mannequins are terribly clever nowadays. It’s robotics, isn’t it? That’s what I’ve read anyway. They say it won’t be long before they rule the world.’
The paramedics on the end of the line were asking for details. Honey had no chance to elucidate to anyone else. The sugar-tong customer merely listened and remarked on whatever was being said, still presuming she was being addressed.
Smudger was giving Ryker the third degree – and judging by the smirk on his face, he was just loving it!
‘Now look ’ere, mate, we all come to a point in life when death stares us in the face. It’s like they say, there’s two dead certs in life; one is that you die, the other is a nurse. Now, you ain’t in no position to take advantage of a nurse and her generous nature, but as for the former …’ Smudger shook his head forlornly and made disapproving noises. ‘Best make your peace mate, or it’s fire and brimstone for you if you don’t. I guarantee you won’t like the cooking too much down there. Nothing but burnt cakes and the hot prongs of a toasting fork for ever prodding yer jacksy.’
Ryker’s eyes rolled frighteningly in his head. His lips went from speedwell to violet. He looked terrified. Honey wasn’t too sure whether it was due to his heart attack or Smudger’s total lack of sympathy.
‘So go on, mate. You can tell me. She thought yer cooking was crap. Is that right?’
Smudger wasn’t too hot on tact either!
Ryker gave a weak nod.
Smudger shook his head. ‘You can’t get like that, old son. Take it from the best chef in the city – yours truly, just in case you didn’t know. You’ve got to take the good with the bad. Everyone’s got their own opinions. They ain’t necessarily right, but there …’
Smudger spread his hands and jerked his head in a matter-of-fact manner.
Honey could have died. What a liar he was! A good chef, but boy …
‘We’re on our way,’ said the emergency services. ‘Keep him comfortable till we get there. Try to keep him from getting excited.’
‘You shouldn’t have hit him so hard,’ Honey whispered to Smudger.
Chapter Forty
A week or so later a huge bouquet of flowers arrived in reception. They were encompassed by Steve Doherty’s arms and festooned with a crisp red bow.
‘For you,’ he said.
Honey was all ready for lift off – in other words they were dining out, dressed up, and had booked a taxi. No curtailing their pleasure because of having to drive home!
‘They’re lovely,’ she said, burrowing her nose into the mix of winter-warming exotics.
‘So are you,’ said Steve, his lips plush against her cheek. His navy blue eyes lapped her up like a hungry dog.
She was wearing a blue silk skirt, a slim sheath of a thing that rasped against her legs like surf against shingle.
The slinky, sexy Victorian corset matched it well. Its tightness emphasized her cup size while holding in her stomach. Two swelling bosoms pulsated against the lace-edged trim.
‘Like pigeons on a platter,’ said Lindsey.
Judging by the hungry look in Steve Doherty’s eyes, she wasn’t far wrong.
‘Tonight’s the night,’ said Lindsey as Honey passed her the flowers to put in water.
‘You bet,’ Honey whispered back.
The job was done: both Ryker and Coleridge were under arrest. Coleridge had made bail. It helped that he could afford the best lawyers that money could buy. His partner, the hit man, had taken the rap for Scheherazade’s death, although he said it was an accident. It seemed she had made the mistake of thinking she could blackmail Coleridge.
Ryker, on the other hand, had been charged with murder. Smudger had been right about the reason he’d murdered Martyna Manderley. Ryker was obsessively protective about his cooking. When faced with criticism, hostility rose like newly baked bread. Like a lot of chefs, he couldn’t take criticism and in his case rejection resulted in a lot more than a dialogue of four-letter words!
Who knows, he too might have got away with a lesser charge if he hadn’t done so much to cover his tracks. He had deliberately brought the atomizer fan from the bedroom in order that its perfume would mask the smell of cook
ing oil. Smelling like a chip pan or a bunch of extra strong garlic was an occupational hazard.
On top of that, the bloodstained script was meant to place blame elsewhere: at Scheherazade. At some point Ms Parker-Henson had eaten one of Ryker’s concoctions which happened to include Brazil nuts. He hadn’t known she was allergic to the nuts, and she’d brought the lot up in front of everyone – then accused Ryker of trying to poison her. The bloodied script had been left on the chair for her in revenge. He hadn’t expected Honey to arrive early and pick it up, not noticing that the make-up artiste’s name was pinned to the back of the chair. No wonder extras were frowned on; they just didn’t know correct form.
Honey was feeling pleased with herself. She’d beaten Steve Doherty to this one. Her mother had agreed about her victory, though inexplicably she had sent Doherty a bottle of sparkling white wine to enjoy before he collected Honey.
Honey frowned when he told her about it. ‘White sparkling wine. Not champagne. Are you sure of that?’
‘Of course I am. I’ll save it for us. I’m on my way over.’
True to his word he brought it with him.
She frowned at the bottle. Something wasn’t quite right here.
‘Are you sure my mother gave you that?’
‘Of course I am. What’s the matter?’
‘Number one, it’s sparkling wine not champagne. And number two, it’s got a screw top. My mother’s no lush, but even so, she wouldn’t be seen dead with a bottle of fizzy that wasn’t champagne. And a sparkling wine in a screw-top bottle? Something is seriously wrong here.’
‘She’s a pensioner. Perhaps she’s being careful,’ offered Doherty.
Honey threw him a warning frown. ‘Do not ever – under any circumstances – ever call my mother a pensioner – certainly not to her face!’
He laughed. ‘Handbags at dawn?’
‘You’d never hear the last of it.’
‘Here. To your health,’ he said, passing her a wine flute.
She took the glass. ‘Are you having some?’
‘I don’t like champagne.’
Killing Jane Austen - A Honey Driver murder mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 24