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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Something slightly out of sight, slightly out of hearing, made her pause at the halfway point. She glanced at the gate dividing her private domain from the lawns and patio reserved for guests.

  The plants climbing up the wall looked the same. So did the tubs of parsley, rosemary, sage, and lavender. That was the great thing about a courtyard garden. No weeding. No lawn mowing. Just pluck the weeds and trim the plants. Simple.

  A climbing rose ran riot in one corner. It shivered in the night breeze and the half shadow that hid it. She peered at it. Had it shivered of its own volition or did the shadow move?

  Calm down. Think logically. A bird could have caused it to shiver. Were there many birds out and about at this time of night?

  A more worrying prospect wouldn’t go away. Was that a pair of wellington boots sticking out at its base?

  In daylight she wouldn’t have given a fig for it. At night, though, figs were monstrous things with big teeth and sharp claws.

  Steps quickening, she headed for her front door whistling ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf’.

  The door thudded shut behind her. That was the great thing about old doors; they had substance, they had character. Best of all was the thickness of the wood. A whole oak or elm had been cut down to make this door. She lay back against it, her heart thudding. The door felt good. Strong.

  Home! There was nothing like it.

  A cup of fresh coffee crossed her mind but kept on going. A sip of water would be enough. Her bed was calling her. Freshly laundered bedlinen was heaven on earth. Shoes were kicked off, clothes were discarded. Sleep came though beset with nightmares about shadows coming to life. The worst was one where a man in a woolly hat kept jumping out of nowhere. He was wearing earplugs and his wife was shrieking in the background.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The morning broke bright and clear but with its usual run of problems. Smudger had run out of eggs and needed plenty for the breakfasts. Honey trotted along the road to the deli and bought three dozen farm-fresh organic ones. Of all the people sharing her life, Smudger Smith was the man she went out of her way to look after. Family members weren’t exactly replaceable, but they were forgiving. Chefs were neither. Like a good car, they had to be run in. The owner – or in her case – the employer had to get used to their foibles and irritating little habits. Good chefs were hard to come by.

  Once the eggs were delivered and grunted and grumbled over, she roused Lindsey from her bed.

  ‘Want to go snooping with me?’

  ‘Is it dangerous?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘Could be.’

  She’d checked with Steve Doherty. Hamilton George and partner had decamped to a rented cottage at Winsley, a village on the outskirts of Bradford-on-Avon.

  Lindsey yawned as she swung her legs out of bed. ‘Sounds like fun. Where are we going?’

  ‘Winsley. I need to speak to a Mr Hamilton George about his online business dealings – noble titles which methinks might be worth as much as flushing your cash straight down the loo.’

  ‘You mean the garderobe. That’s what they called the little room in the Middle Ages.’

  ‘Isn’t that what I said? I warn you, his wife talks a lot. That’s why I’m taking you. I’ll keep her occupied while you do the computer stuff.’

  Lindsey nodded and yawned again. ‘Uh-huh.’

  Honey paused. Lindsey didn’t usually fit into the lacklustre teenager bracket. Even in the morning she usually had more bounce than a beach ball. ‘You look tired. Had a good night with your kilted beau?’

  Lindsey nodded, smiled and changed the subject. ‘Now how can I help you with this latest case? Any sleuthing on the computer needing to be done?’

  Honey took the hint. Lindsey didn’t want to talk about the boyfriend. Fine. She filled her in on the Noble Present site and Simon Taylor. ‘It’s some kind of franchise operation. That’s all I know.’

  Lindsey told her she’d deal with it.

  Honey found herself wondering about the young man. Lindsey was great on the history and computers front. Like her mother, she wasn’t so hot at choosing her men. It had been a surprise to her when she’d heard of Lindsey’s involvement with Oliver Stafford, a married, and later murdered, chef. But then, the girl couldn’t be good at everything.

  ‘Do you want breakfast?’

  ‘I’ll grab a coffee then see you outside.’

  ‘We’ll go in your car. Is that OK?’

  ‘The Yellow Peril is at your disposal, Mother.’

  Reception was unusually quiet. Anna had sorted out most of the bills for departing guests. But it wasn’t just that. Mary Jane was nowhere in sight. Very unusual for Mary Jane, though she was pretty unusual anyway, of course. Perhaps, just for once, she was having a lie-in, thought Honey.

  She addressed Anna who was swiftly outgrowing reception thanks to her six-month lump. ‘No Mary Jane?’

  ‘No. She went out with Lindsey. She was chatting a lot.’

  A cold chill rippled down Honey’s spine. Something awful was about to happen and she could make a good guess what it was.

  Outside on the pavement, her eyes scoured the traffic for Lindsey’s yellow VW. No sign of citrus yellow. Instead she saw pale pink. ‘Oh, no,’ Honey said under her breath.

  Mary Jane’s pink Cadillac, affectionately termed the ‘chick mobile’, glided up to the kerb. She’d shipped it over from California with a few other precious things. The uninformed visualise all Cadillacs as long, low things with dagger-like wings sticking up at the back. But this was a coupe, a neat alternative to the usual Elvis-mobile.

  Mary Jane had owned it since her high-school days and insisted it could tell a few ‘hot’ stories. No doubt it could, but a lot of years had gone by. The car had aged and so had Mary Jane. All the same, both still turned heads; admiration for the car, amazement for Mary Jane.

  Over the years the City of Bath had seen a lot of kinds of transport come and go. Sturdy ponies and sledges in Celtic times, litters for the Romans, sedan chairs in the eighteenth century, and self-steering invalid carriages in the nineteenth. But pink Cadillacs were a rarity. So were the likes of Mary Jane and her driving.

  She’d never quite got used to the rule about keeping to the left side of the road. To travel with her was something of an adventure comparable to skydiving on the end of an elastic band that had lost its bounce.

  People stopped and stared. A group of tourists took a photograph and a man, possibly a Russian, waved a fistful of money in their direction. ‘How much you want for that car?’

  Lindsey was sitting in the passenger seat and had wound down the window.

  Standing like a lump of limp dough at the kerb, Honey made a face. What’s she doing here?

  Lindsey mouthed a reply.

  She insisted.

  Mary Jane was not so much an insistent person as one who was oblivious to the possibility that others might not care to partake in what she wanted to do.

  Knowing resistance was futile, Honey got in and slid over the cracked white leather of the car’s rear seat. She was loath to appear scared. But she needed to say something, if only to keep from admitting how she was really feeling.

  ‘So,’ Honey asked. ‘How did your table-tapping go?’

  She shouldn’t have said it. She realised this the moment that Mary Jane broke into fast-forward animation at the same time as pulling out into the traffic.

  ‘Badly,’ she said with a scowl. Her scrawny neck turned through ninety degrees so she was close to facing backwards. ‘Badly. And when I say badly, I mean b-a-d-l-y! The yeses got mixed up with the nos until I didn’t know who I was talking to. Geesh!’ She shook her head forlornly. ‘I’ve never got this muddled before. The table did a damned jig when I asked my spirit guide if he knew anything about this Wanda Carpenter, otherwise known as Lady Templeton-Jones. I’m sure she was doing her damnedest to override him. Did she strike you as an impatient woman?’

  ‘I never really got to know her that well,’ s
aid Honey. while Mary Jane was looking backwards she kept her eyes braced open. Once she’d turned to face forward she squeezed them tightly shut. Not seeing what was happening was preferable to witnessing Mary Jane’s dodgem-style car driving.

  Mary Jane slowly shook her head. ‘Well, it sure could have been her. Pushy type at that. Forcing her way to the front of the queue. Sir Cedric didn’t like it one little bit! Manners matter, regardless of the circumstances of a person’s demise.’

  Honey was more worried about her own demise at present. Hearing the blaring of horns and the squealing of brakes, she opened one eye. ‘Watch that zebra crossing. Brake, Mary Jane, brake!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mary Jane shouted, as a group of Japanese tourists divided hastily in order to avoid the Cadillac as she ploughed on through.

  Honey closed her eyes. Trips in Mary Jane’s Caddy had a habit of turning into white-knuckle rides, and this one was the daddy of them all. Her whole body felt like it had gone into rigor mortis. There was something vaguely Italian about the way Mary Jane waved her arms to emphasise what she was saying. And how could she turn her head like that? A certain eighties horror film came to mind. Neither gelled with rush-hour traffic.

  Taxis were blowing their horns, brakes were squealing like pigs with slit throats, and white-van men was giving two-fingered salutes.

  Lindsey grabbed the steering wheel, swinging it away from a billboard that was sent rocking in its frame.

  Honey felt guilty about leaving her daughter in the front seat. It might be a fleeting fancy, but she’d quite like her genes to go on for a few generations. And Lindsey was the only gene pool she was likely to leave behind.

  Strange how much eternity and the afterlife came up when Mary Jane was around. The lanky, lean Californian saw and heard nothing. Her mouth was in overdrive.

  ‘Mark my words, that woman from the Midwest was not on that walk to look for ghosts. She didn’t have the right aura. Do you remember I told you that at the time?’

  Honey had to agree. ‘I remember.’

  None of those interviewed had mentioned ghosts as a subject close to their hearts. They’d all been there for the fun of it. But Lady Templeton-Jones had seemed the most unlikely of all.

  G-force kicked in as Mary Jane jabbed her foot on the gas. The car shot forward, sending a trio of eco-friendly cyclists shooting up a disabled ramp.

  Lindsey shouted, ‘Whoa!’

  Mary Jane repeated herself. ‘Something definitely stinks!’

  More by luck than judgement, Mary Jane managed to manoeuvre out on to the main road, though by a very roundabout method. Rather than chance cutting through the city, she opted to head towards Bristol, then turn up past Green Park. They bowled out on to Queen Square, causing the driver of a rubbish truck to stand on his brakes.

  ‘Nasty temper,’ Mary Jane said with an air of disbelief.

  Lindsey put her straight – or so she thought. ‘You didn’t look before emerging.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did,’ Mary Jane replied in an offended tone. ‘Didn’t I do just that, Honey? You saw me do it, didn’t you? It’s you Brits! You drive on the wrong side!’

  Lindsey sighed and resumed giving her directions. ‘Head out along Lambridge. I’ll direct you from there.’

  ‘Right!’

  Things calmed a little. They were heading east in the general direction of Bradford-on-Avon. The village of Winsley was on the outskirts. By hook or by crook, which to Honey’s mind meant by hooked hedges and a crooked course, they would get to where they were going. Luckily they were heading in a straight line until they got to the roundabout where the Bradford-on-Avon turning went off to the right. Mary Jane drove straight on.

  Honey’s nerves were too shredded to point this out. Lindsey was more diplomatic.

  ‘I think we should have gone right back there, Mary Jane. It said right to Bradford-on-Avon. It might be best if you turned round.’

  ‘Darn!’ Mary Jane exclaimed. ‘I don’t like turning round. I like to keep going. I used to be good at turning round and going backwards, but I only like going forwards nowadays.’

  This was not good. Cars were meant to be pretty flexible as far as direction was concerned. Mary Jane obviously needed a car that would do that sort of stuff for her …

  ‘Betcha we can bear off up here a-way,’ she said brightly.

  Honey noticed her daughter’s shoulders stiffen into a perfect square. Likewise, every muscle in her own body was rock hard. The endorphins were on full alert, ready to kick in on damage limitation.

  She leaned forward so her head was between Mary Jane’s and her daughters. Lindsey’s face was white, worrying on a girl who tanned easily.

  Honey went for it. ‘I’d like a word with Ashwell Bridgewater. He’s the dead woman’s cousin and he lives in Northend. Do you mind making a diversion, Mary Jane?’

  ‘Nope! Where’s the turning?’

  ‘Next on the left, but not …’

  Too late. No signal, a swift turn of the wheel and they’d shot up a cul-de-sac. They left behind protesting car horns and skidpan manoeuvres. All’s well that ends well; they arrived outside the right cottage in the right place. And in one piece …

  Ashwell Bridgewater lived in one of a terraced row of cottages at the Batch in Northend.

  Mary Jane slammed on the brakes. ‘This it?’

  ‘Sure is.’ Honey got out hoping that Ashwell Bridgewater was in the bath and had to get out to answer the door to her. ‘Stay here. I won’t be long.’

  Lindsey also got out. ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Mary Jane looked alarmed. ‘Have I got to stay out here all by myself?’

  Honey thought quickly. ‘Of course you do. I need you to block his escape. If he comes running out, nail him.’

  Mary Jane’s eyes positively glittered at the prospect of nailing a real live criminal. She bent forward rummaging beneath her seat and brought out a tyre wrench. ‘I’ll nail him with this.’

  Lindsey got out of the passenger seat, restored to her usual level of composure.

  ‘Does your mother have new evidence and deeply searching questions to ask?’ Mary Jane asked her.

  ‘No.’ said Lindsey. ‘She just hates people who get her out of the bath. His sort have hassled her, so now she’s hassling him.’

  ‘She insisted,’ said Lindsey as she followed her mother through the gate. ‘I couldn’t stop her. I did try.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The terraced houses lining the Batch dated from the late-seventeenth century. They were tall and thin, each at least three storeys, with stone mullion windows and slate mansard roofs. Number 17 had a well-kept garden with chocolate-box roses growing over a frame around the front door. Hollyhocks snuggled against the boundary walls. Purple, pink, and white border plants jostled for space either side of the path. It was pretty, in a Hansel and Gretel kind of way.

  Lindsey asked, ‘Is this guy dangerous?’

  ‘Only on the other end of the telephone.’ Honey gritted her teeth. She told herself not to let those interrupted nights of soaking in the bath get to her. Bridgewater might not be personally responsible for them.

  There was no doorbell, just a cast-iron knocker: a naked naiad bent like a horseshoe, her feet touching the back of her head.

  Mother and daughter eyed it speculatively.

  ‘Sexist,’ said Lindsey.

  ‘Physically impossible!’

  Honey gave it a stout rap, stood back and looked up at the first floor windows. A face appeared and disappeared; a pasty face. People who spent a lot of time on the telephone and in front of a computer were always pasty. Except Lindsey, of course. Lindsey was exceptional. But then I’m biased, thought Honey.

  Feet descending stairs sounded from the other side of the door. Honey took a deep breath and mentally listed the questions she needed to ask. She pushed her opinion about telephone harassment to the back of her mind.

  The door was stiff in its frame and juddered as it was tugged open. Ashwell Bridgewa
ter was dressed in dark chinos, a pale shirt, and even a tie. He recognised her immediately. His smile was instantaneous, like someone had flicked on a lightswitch.

  ‘Hello. My, you’re lucky to find me here. Did the office tell you I was working from home today?’

  Despite the molasses smile, Honey couldn’t help the feeling that he wasn’t pleased about her visit.

  ‘I took a chance,’ she said, matching his smile with one of her own.

  She guessed he didn’t believe her. Woe betide any poor soul he suspected of telling her he was home. They’d be for the high jump – probably off the edge of a cliff.

  ‘Can we come in?’

  For a moment his smile faltered. His eyes flickered as they darted between mother and daughter.

  Suddenly he seemed smitten with the need to please.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Oozing enthusiasm, he stood back against the wall, waving them in. ‘Do come in. Would you like tea? Or coffee? The coffee’s filter. The tea’s Darjeeling.’

  Mindful that the experience of Mary Jane’s driving could quite easily lead to even the strongest bladder vacating itself, Honey declined. Being a chip off the old block, Lindsey did the same.

  The front door led directly into a single reception room. In the right-hand corner a wrought-iron staircase wound upwards.

  ‘It’s small but exquisitely built,’ said Bridgewater as though he’d just read her thoughts. ‘It still has character. I think character is so very important in a house. That’s why I like old houses.’

  ‘It was left to you by your grandfather?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  He invited them to sit down. As she did so, Honey got out her notebook and tried not to covet the lovely old furniture, the paintings, and the porcelain. Shabby chic sprung to mind. All this stuff had been handed down. It all needed sorting out, throwing out, refurbishing, reupholstering, or repolishing. And there was far too much of it, giving the cottage an overstuffed feel.

  She noticed a few cardboard boxes on the floor to either side of a small oak table. Old cameras spilled over the top of one box. Old film reels filled the other. Another reel sat on the table, barely discernible through bubble wrap.