Walking with Ghosts - A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  In days of old when knights were bold …

  She smiled at her own interpretation of what he was. She had her own reasons for not confirming either his name or his occupation – especially his occupation – to her mother. It was something to do with both pride and having a life of her own. Let her mother find out for herself, after all, she was the amateur sleuth, wasn’t she?

  Just for once one of the most handsome boyfriends she’d ever had had left his leathers at home. He was wearing a beige jacket, dark trousers, and crisp white shirt. A small gold crucifix dangled at his throat.

  He smiled when he saw her.

  They kissed as she took his arm.

  She smiled and hugged his arm closer. ‘My mother thinks your name is Warren Price.

  He grinned. ‘If you want me to be Warren Price, I’ll be Warren Price. Do you?’

  ‘It’s just that my mum’s asking questions. Warren Price is a murderer. You wouldn’t want to be that, would you?’

  He grinned. ‘I am what I am.’

  Lindsey sucked in her lips and looked away. He was indeed and even she couldn’t quite face up to what he was.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Breakfast had finished. The bills for the guests departing that day were ready and waiting. Everything in the garden was rosy.

  And then Honey’s mother arrived.

  ‘Hannah! Me and the girls have racked our brains, but no deal. We’ve got a battle to fight and I need you to give us a hand. Come in here when you’ve finished. Is my granddaughter around? I might need her too.’

  This was bad news. Honey had planned to check with Doherty whether there had been any progress on the case. No chance now.

  Gloria Cross sounded like John Wayne getting ready for D-Day. She was striking the same poses too. Luckily she didn’t look like him. Suntanned and incredibly vibrant for her age, she was wearing a pale beige suede suit bordered with blue. Her hair was styled in short bouncy layers and dyed to match her suit. Pearl earrings the size of quails’ eggs clung tenaciously to her ear lobes. A matching collar of pearls inset in gold – costume jewellery to die for – nestled around her neck. She was more vital than usual having just come back from a cruise with the Senior Salsa Club.

  Expensive French perfume wafted in her wake as, without a by-your-leave, she pushed open the door to Honey’s office. The office was empty by virtue of the fact that its incumbent was presently dealing with a ten-year-old Irish boy who had mislaid his skateboard.

  ‘I’ll get everyone looking for it, Kenny,’ Honey promised the worried-looking lad. ‘Come back after lunch. I bet it’s turned up by then.’ She could tell by his expression that he believed her promise. Kenny was blond, blue-eyed and young enough to still have faith in grown-ups. Give it a year or two and he’d enter the grouchy in-between stage before finally, in five or six years’ time, becoming teenage stud of the year.

  One problem sorted – if only temporarily, one more to go.

  Her mother looked perplexed and people perplexed usually slumped into a chair. Her mother floated. She never slumped.

  ‘Close the door. This is private,’ Gloria said.

  Honey did as ordered. Once that was done, she sat herself down and kicked off her shoes. Her feet would, with a bit of luck, not be swollen by the time she came to put them back on.

  Pencil-thin eyebrows courtesy of a top-class beauty parlour frowned suddenly. ‘Who’s the guy in the wellington boots?’

  ‘Was he riding a motorbike?’

  ‘Lingering on it outside and peering in.’ Her expression soured. ‘Please don’t tell me he’s your latest beau. Please! Wellington boots?’

  Honey was loath to admit anything. Although he hadn’t said so, she took it as read that what Steve had told her was privileged information.

  ‘I don’t know him. He’s probably trying to get up the courage to come in and ask for a job. I thought you’d come to ask me about the murder inquiry.’

  ‘Are you going to disappoint me and tell me you didn’t beat up on anyone?’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  ‘Then it’s as well I’m here about something else. Someone is out to destroy Second-hand Sheila.’

  Honey’s eyebrows rose. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s what they’ve done. It’s underhand. It’s criminal, but they needn’t think they’re going to get away with it. I’ve got the bit between my teeth on this one and I’m not letting go!’

  Honey felt a sinking feeling as a worrying thought came to her. Her mother had a thing about fixing her up with unsuitable men – husband material of the worst kind. Honey fancied this might be one of those matchmaking moments. She fixed her mother with a wary look. ‘Is this to do with a man, Mother?’

  A deep frown wrinkled the smooth foundation of her mother’s shiny brow. Her pencilled eyebrows made a pointy shape like a downturned arrow.

  ‘Hannah! This is far more serious than a man! This is about money!’

  ‘Ah!’

  Honey sat up straighter. Yes, her mother liked men, and was convinced that she was the best person to find the right one for her daughter. Not that she was exactly past the shopping-for-stud circuit herself. Not too seriously; she merely dabbled now and again. But money rated higher. Money-plus-man-equalled-husband. What was that about a young man with a fortune being in need of a wife? Same thing. Jane Austen, move over. Her mother was coming through.

  ‘OK. Take a deep breath and tell me all about it.’

  Honey found herself taking a deep breath too.

  Her mother’s pink lips formed a waspish pout before she continued. ‘As I’ve already mentioned, it’s the shop.’ She said it in a rush and got her handkerchief out, dabbing very carefully at her eyes so as not to smudge her mascara. ‘We’ve received notice to quit. Two weeks’ notice! That’s all we’ve got.’

  ‘That’s terrible,’ said Honey, and meant it.

  Second-hand Sheila was a dress agency which was run as a kind of cooperative by her mother and half-a-dozen other well-heeled, socially motivated women. Clothes that had been outgrown, or grown tired of, were brought in for resale. Half of the proceeds went to the shop, the other half to charity. Her mother loved it, dealing as it did with top-quality merchandise. Never in her life had she served behind a shop counter; she’d always much preferred the other side, spending rather than selling. But this was different. Clothes and gossip came in and out of the shop with stunning rapidity. It was an enormous success – both as a business and a way of keeping her mother off Honey’s back two days a week. Losing the shop would be bad news.

  Honey felt a nervous tic flick like a neon light beneath her right eye. If she wasn’t careful, her worst nightmare could come true. Her mother might want to help run the hotel. Nothing could be worse.

  But it was.

  Her mother sighed and tucked her handkerchief up her sleeve. ‘I thought we could do our business here temporarily until we get a new shop and a new lease sorted out. Maurice Clout’s old shop would serve us well after a bit of TLC.’

  Honey turned cold. ‘I had someone come in about it last week.’

  A blatant lie. The old hairdressing salon was tacked on to the side of the hotel down a side street. Maurice Clout had run it for years until his arthritis – and the fact that he spent most business hours in the betting shop – had brought it to a grinding halt. The worse nightmare had happened, but it could get worse! Honey was thinking ahead. What started out as temporary could easily turn permanent.

  Gloria Cross narrowed her eyes into beady accusing slits. ‘I may have to insist. You still owe me for that new-fangled steam room you bought.’

  The sauna. It had seemed a good idea at the time and the price had been right. So too the salesman. Tall, blond-haired and Swedish, with a lantern jaw and a delightfully tight butt.

  Her mother’s expression soured. ‘You should never have bought that wooden steam kettle. Who the hell wants to turn pink as pork?’

  Honey rolled her eyes
. She could have retorted that pink was Mary Jane’s favourite colour, but there was some truth in her mother’s argument. The sauna hadn’t worked out to be as popular as she’d hoped and would come back to haunt her for all eternity – or at least for as long as the bank still drawing on the direct debit.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty. This is all so sudden. Why don’t we sit down. I’ll pour coffee and you can tell me what happened.’

  As Honey poured coffee, her mother began her tale.

  ‘Wallace and Gates Holdings who own the property, have been very good to us up until now. William Wallace is a real sweetie and would never have turned us out.’ Suddenly she leaned forward, winked and patted Honey’s knee. ‘We’re of an “age” you know and he was quite a stud before senility set in.’

  ‘I get the picture. So he’s over seventy, unless he’s the original William Wallace, in which case he’s approaching seven hundred, give a century or two.’

  Her mother grimaced. ‘Now you’re being silly and we can do without that. You need to take this seriously.’

  ‘Oh, I am.’ The implications of having her mother as a neighbour were enormous. Honey forced herself to think seriously. ‘You’ve had that shop for five years. Why do they want you out now?’

  More money was probably the reason.

  Her mother shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea, but I’m going to find out. I’m off to beard the lion in his den, so to speak.’

  Murder would have to wait. Honey sprang to her feet. ‘I’m with you.’

  She was a woman on a mission. Sort of ‘ancient Chinese writing say: one woman under one roof is peace; two women under one roof is war’ – that was about the gist of it.

  Other plans, such as Honey’s treat of the month – the purchase of a cute pair of shoes she’d seen in Jollys; not too pointed, not too high a heel and not too pricey. They’d ticked all the right boxes. But keeping mother happy – especially when it meant keeping her out of the Green River Hotel – ticked them big time!

  She grabbed the car keys.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘I’m warning you; William Wallace can charm the pants off a girl.’

  ‘Not this girl,’ said Honey, and added, mostly to herself. ‘Not unless he’s Mel Gibson wearing a kilt.’

  ‘This guy could.’

  Honey looked at her mother. She had a dreamy look in her eyes. It could mean only one thing. She looked at her mother. ‘You didn’t!’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘I’m old enough to know my own mind.’

  Steve Doherty rang just as Honey was fastening her seat belt.

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Not much. We’re just waiting for word from the owners of the empty shop where the victim was found. The old place is earmarked for renovation. I’ve asked them to give me a list of contractors that might have visited there in the last few days. What are you up to?’

  Honey explained about her mother’s shop. ‘We’re off to speak to a Mr Wallace of Wallace and Gates who own the shop my mother leases.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence. That’s the same company who own the scene of our dead lady.’

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The office of Wallace and Gates Holdings occupied the whole of a converted warehouse overlooking the river. What had once been grain silos jutting out over the water had been altered to form balconies of smoky glass and stainless steel. The space-like pod of a scenic elevator ran up the corner of the building nearest the river. Landscaping had replaced the rubbish and corrugated tin of the car lot that used to be there.

  Gloria Cross eyed the elevator capsule with childish glee. ‘Can we go up in that?’

  ‘We’re not here for the ride, Mother.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have hurt.’

  The peevish look descended. Honey didn’t have time for this. She had a business to run for God’s sake. And a murderer to catch – fixed between dishing-up plats du jour and clearing the drains.

  Daughter guided her mother towards the plate-glass doors with copper trim that formed the main entrance. ‘I think we should first check that Mr Wallace is at home and willing to receive visitors.’

  Stainless steel and sheet glass formed interior divisions against Victorian brick and cast-iron supports. Daylight falling through sheet glass walls gave a liquid look to the marble floor. Everything was shiny. Everything was design led. History was tinsel clad.

  The receptionist was no exception. She was tanned and tall, her hair slicked back into a tight ponytail tamed to lie at the nape of her neck. She wore a charcoal grey suit, a startlingly white blouse and a red enamel pin at her throat; WGH, the company logo.

  Honey congratulated herself that she was wearing a fitted navy blue dress with a gold chain hanging halfway between waist and bosom. The skirt was mid-calf and fitted. She always felt good – no – glamorous in this dress. Her waist looked smaller, her hips and bosom balanced. She was wearing navy blue stockings to match her dress. The dress sleeves were long with tight cuffs.

  Glowing with confidence, she explained why they’d come and who they wanted to see.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the receptionist with a flash of ultra-white teeth. ‘Mr Wallace Senior was taken ill some time ago. His son, Mr Cameron Wallace, has taken over.’

  Honey tried to tear her gaze away from the snow-glare teeth, but it wasn’t easy.

  ‘Well, that could explain a lot. Could you tell him that Mrs Gloria Cross is here to discuss the lease of her shop, Second-hand Sheila?’

  The receptionist checked her computer screen. ‘He is rather busy today …’

  Gloria leaned across the grey expanse of countertop. ‘Let him into a secret. Tell him me and his father used to be an item. Tell him I’ve got a legal deal to settle.’

  The receptionist’s eyelashes, thickly caked with mascara, fluttered like bats wings. Rosy cheeks blushed through the Max Factor sheen. Seemingly unwilling to delve further into the love life of a septuagenarian couple, she turned her attention to Honey.

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Her lawyer,’ said Honey.

  ‘My lawyer,’ echoed her mother looking as though she were enjoying the subterfuge.

  The protective façade crumbled. ‘Do take a seat, ladies.’ Her voice was as stiff as her smile.

  Cool, thought Honey, half-inclined to shake the receptionist’s hand. She surely deserved to be complimented on keeping a straight face. Behind the mask she had to be wondering what manner of dodos she had here.

  There were sofas in reception – big squashy dark brown ones arranged around a glass coffee table. Vogue, the Financial Times and Commercial Property Monthly were set out equidistant from each other on the polished glass top. Honey wondered if a ruler was used to make sure the distances were kept uniform. She’d heard they did that at royal banquets. The queen inspected afterwards; off with their heads if they didn’t get it right.

  ‘I think we impressed her,’ Gloria whispered to her daughter.

  Honey responded in the same level of whisper. ‘I think we did. She thinks we’re nuts.’

  Fifteen minutes later the phone rang and the receptionist looked pointedly in their direction. ‘Mr Wallace will see you now.’

  There was something about the way she said it – and her reaction to the phone call – that made Honey think the girl was in awe of her boss, either that or she fancied him. Good-looking, perhaps?

  Good guess.

  Cameron Wallace rose in an act of old-fashioned courtesy.

  They shook hands and did the introductions.

  ‘Please. Sit down,’ he said.

  His office was big enough to hold an orgy. Not that Honey considered him that type. Anyway, the decor wasn’t orgy-orientated. The floor was ornate Italian marble, true, but the desk was of chrome and crushed leather. Far too clinical. If there were any filing cabinets they were well hidden. Probably there were panels that sprang open when pressed. The black leather walls were relieved by a glass panel. Modernistic splashes of red, green, and blues s
himmered and changed depending on perspective.

  He saw her give it the once over.

  ‘Do you like it?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does it say to you?’

  The answer came straight from the hip. ‘Red sky, green land, blue sea.’ She leaned closer, peering at the centre of the scene. ‘And isn’t that a boat, or a piece of boat.’

  ‘The bow of a ship. It’s sinking.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It seemed a sad subject, almost macabre. What did she know, her who could barely draw a sausage dog with stick legs. Modern art wasn’t her bag. She liked old things that had worn well – a bit like her.

  As they settled into their chairs, Honey weighed him up. He was wearing a white shirt, a dark blue tie with a red rose motif, dark blue trousers. His cufflinks looked like real gold in the shape of dice. They were studded with what could be – just could be … real diamonds.

  He shrugged his shoulders. There was grace to his movement and a sparkle in his eyes.

  To his credit he was courteous to both mother and daughter, perhaps more so to Honey, though it could be wishful-thinking that he was paying her undue – correction – flattering attention.

  Her mother, having neither lust nor loyalty for this guy, jumped in first. ‘It’s about our shop. The girls and I have been running it for some time. We’re a respected item in the community, and just to get the gist of where I’m coming from, your father and I were also an item – and not that long ago either. Now as I see it …’ Cameron Wallace listened politely as Gloria Cross outlined the problem before blasting off at the bottom line. ‘So now explain yourself. What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’

  To his credit Cameron didn’t look surprised regarding the comment about Gloria and his father.

  For her part, Honey looked up at the ceiling. Her mother was Mrs Blunt-on-legs. If you did her wrong, then she wasted no time in getting an explanation – and getting even.

  Cameron Wallace divided his smile equally between them. ‘I’m sorry this has happened, but the circumstances are beyond our control. I won’t go into detail, but there have been problems within the company. Real estate that was thought to be securely under our control turned out not to be. My father was not concentrating as he should have been.’