So why the sudden suspicion? It wouldn’t do to mention that her grandmother had phoned demanding to know all the details. ‘What’s she getting herself spruced up for?’ her grandmother had queried, then paused as she answered her own question. ‘She’s getting married again! That’s it. Why else would I act out of character and go in for a spot of rejuvenation if it wasn’t for that?’
The seed of suspicion had festered and sprouted a green shoot.
‘She told me she was having a few days away but wouldn’t tell me where. She’s never done that before.’
‘And you don’t like not being in the loop.’
‘I suppose not.’
Steve put his coffee mug down on the table. ‘You have to agree that she deserves some time away. She’ll come back like a new woman.’
‘I like her as she is. Don’t you?’
The question caught him off balance. He didn’t really want to disclose the true reason for Honey’s days away. They’d agreed not to say anything until she’d actually gone. Questions were easier to deflect that way. They weren’t going to know where she was and she didn’t have to lie because she was no good at it.
Doherty was all smiles. ‘Of course I do, but seeing as we’re looking forward to a special occasion …’
‘Special?’ Lindsey cocked an eyebrow. She was all attention.
‘On Friday. That’s why I’m here. I’ve come to ask you something …’
She held her breath. ‘So this is it. You’re going to ask me something that I may not be able to answer until Mum’s here.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not sure about that. It depends whether you can put your hands on it without her around. Casper was adamant that your mother knew all about having it.’
Lindsey frowned. ‘Pardon me?’
‘He was rabbiting on about a table decoration for this wine tasting that’s going down. An epergne I think he called it.’
‘Oh!’
Lindsey felt embarrassed. There she was, thinking that she was about to be informed that her mother was getting married again and hey presto! Casper and his demand for a Victorian table decoration had filled its place.
Her face must have reflected her consternation.
Doherty frowned. ‘What were you expecting me to say?’
Lindsey knew how to fluster. Her mother flustered. Her grandma rarely did, purely because she considered she was always right and therefore had no need to fluster.
‘Um. Purely a misunderstanding.’
‘Aha!’
Lindsey had a knack of getting out of scrapes before she actually fell in them. The marriage thing was put to bed – and then Gran arrived.
Gloria Cross wafted into the room looking a dream in an oyster-coloured suit with black accessories including knee-high boots. She was also wearing a nose stud.
Lindsey did a double take. The nose stud was new, daringly hip for a woman who wouldn’t see seventy-one again. She heard Doherty swear beneath his breath.
Gloria sallied forth. ‘I want a word with you, Stephen!’
Doherty was already making small backward steps towards the door. ‘You do?’
Lindsey found her voice. ‘No you don’t, Gran.’ She shook her head in warning.
Gloria Cross ignored the warning, skewering her with a pair of chill blue eyes surrounded with harmonized eye make-up.
‘Of course I do. If it concerns my daughter’s future, then it concerns me. And don’t call me Gran. It’s aging.’
Lindsey muttered an apology. There was no sense whatsoever in pointing out that her grandmother – a glamorous puss if ever there was – was over seventy years old. Calling her ‘Gran’ was therefore no big deal.
Doherty was looking confused, his head jerking from one side to the other like a spectator on the centre court at Wimbledon.
‘Would someone mind telling me what’s going down here?’
Gloria Cross was nothing if not blunt. He stiffened when she fixed him with a full-frontal assault. Her eyes were that powerful.
‘I’m not sure that I approve of you marrying my daughter.’
‘You don’t?’
‘I do not.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind if I should ever get round to asking her.’
Honey’s mother frowned. ‘You mean you haven’t asked her? Then why has she gone off to have beauty treatment?’
Doherty smirked. ‘She’s taking the benefit of the very good advice that you’ve given her over the years.’
Gloria made snake eyes at him. ‘I’m not sure that I trust you, young man. Are you taking me for a fool?’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘Then what have you come round here for?’
‘An epergne. Casper wants it,’ Lindsey swiftly interjected.
Gloria addressed Doherty. ‘So why the big secret to going away?’
Doherty sighed. ‘She wanted a break. That’s all.’
‘Do you know where she’s gone?’
‘She swore me to secrecy.’
‘OK. So tell me.’
Doherty threw back his head and inwardly groaned. Gloria Cross was one of those people who didn’t think rules applied to her, certainly not ones concerning her family.
‘I’ve just told you. It’s a secret.’
‘How dare you! I’m her mother.’
‘Don’t I just know that,’ he muttered.
‘What?’
Doherty winced. There was something about Gloria Cross that brought out the wimp in him. Perhaps it was the shrill voice. Or it might be the piercing look that could emasculate a bull elephant.
‘Sorry,’ he said, delving fiercely into his pocket while increasing the length of his backward steps. ‘That’s my pager. Got to go.’
Pager? The last time he’d used a pager was in 1988! But lying was in order under the circumstances. Gloria Cross scared him.
‘Steve!’
Lindsey grabbed his arm. Lindsey he could cope with. Her brown eyes looked up at him.
‘Don’t worry about the epergne. I’ll get it over to Casper.’
‘Oh yes.’ He’d almost forgotten the reason for popping in.
Lindsey’s eyes narrowed at the same time as her fingers tightened their grip on his arm.
‘I don’t believe you, Steve Doherty. You and my mother are up to something.’
‘It’s perfectly legal,’ he said, sounding as innocent as he was ever likely to sound.
‘And probably official,’ Lindsey added knowingly, dropping her voice. ‘She’s off on a case for you, isn’t she?’
He gave a light laugh. ‘Fancy you thinking we were going to get married.’
‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Just fancy.’
Chapter Nine
Mrs Evelyn Van Rocher had been a beauty queen in her youth. The bone structure was still obvious, though the jowls had gone south a bit. Her hair was neon white, fluffed up at the crown, and wispy around her face. So far she didn’t have a double chin but the jowls had to go; that’s why she was here. The clinic offered a plastic surgery consultation service to regular clients or those referred by them.
Dr Dexter had given her the once over, his cool fingers gently prodding the offending areas that she was keen to get rid of.
‘I see no reason why we cannot dispose of the excess flesh. Do you have any particular time scale for pursuing this course of action, Mrs Van Rocher?’
His voice was smooth, like oil on troubled waters.
Evelyn Van Rocher flushed like a young girl. ‘I’m getting married again.’
‘How romantic! And who is the lucky fellow? Anyone I know?’ The doctor scribbled in the margin of her notes – a question mark. He paused, waiting for the clarification he wanted to hear, the one that would sway his decision on where Mrs Van Rocher – who was good for the cash – would get her facelift done. It would also make him a lot of money.
She flushed a little more.
‘I don’t think so. He’s foreign and quite a bit
younger than me. But we are soul mates, Dr Dexter. We knew it from the moment we met, when I saw him waiting on tables at the hotel I was staying at,’ she gushed, eyes approaching fifty glistening like a girl’s of twenty.
Dr Dexter congratulated her on her good fortune. ‘How very wonderful. Well, you certainly have to do your best for your new man. You want to be beautiful for him.’
‘Oh yes,’ she sighed in swoon mode ecstasy. ‘I have to look my best for the big day.’
Dr Dexter smiled his professional smile. Inside he was counting the bank notes. This stupid woman had gone on holiday abroad – probably North Africa – and nabbed herself a nubile young local desperate to escape hard work and poverty. Pretending to be in love with her, he’d allowed her to stand the air fares and now they were headed for a civil wedding with all the trimmings – provided by her of course. Well, she wasn’t the first to be blinded by love and she wouldn’t be the last. It wasn’t for him to be judgemental – just helpful.
‘So when are you tying the knot, Mrs Van Rocher?’
‘Six weeks’ time. I know it’s short notice, but he can only spare so much time over here until the paperwork is finalized …’ An anxious tongue licked at her lips as she paused to ask him what he knew she would ask him. ‘I’ll pay extra if you can fit me in.’
She wore an earnest look on her face; her eyes were pleading like a spaniel who wanted to go for a walk.
Dexter knew all the signs. Now came the play acting. Doctor Roger Dexter was good at that too.
‘Ah! There could be a problem with that …’
‘Oh dear!’ Evelyn Van Rocher’s fat fingers gripped tightly at the clasp of her Christian Dior handbag. It looked to be a genuine designer handbag, but then, he concluded, you couldn’t really tell nowadays.
Dr Dexter moved behind the plate glass desk in his sumptuous office.
‘Perhaps there is something I can do …’
He saw her lean forward slightly, all ears to what he was about to propose. He likened it to reeling in a large fish; dangle the right bait on the line and they couldn’t resist.
‘Would you be averse to travelling abroad?’
She looked apprehensive, one fat hand travelling to her mouth, finger posed on chin. ‘Well … I don’t know. Will it cost very much more?’
He shook his head. ‘About the same when you consider that flights and accommodation are included. But going abroad makes sense if you want something done quickly for an important occasion. Would you like to think about it for a few days?’
Just as he’d expected, her decision came swiftly.
‘If it costs the same, then what have I got to lose?’
Chapter Ten
Dr Dexter had closed his file by the time Serena Sarabande entered his consulting room.
‘Mrs Van Rocher has paid the fifteen thousand in full. She’s leaving tomorrow. I’d already booked her in at the clinic, though I have to say you were chancing your luck. How did you know she’d decide that quickly?’
His smile was slow and considered. ‘She’s a woman in love – another May and September holiday romance. And you know the old saying about love being blind.’
Her smile slid across her face, not warming it, but purely altering the contours into something more catlike, more calculating. ‘It goes along with the saying that there’s no fool like an old fool. Anyway, by this time tomorrow she’ll be on her way to Venezuela.’
‘She’ll love it at the Francesca Del Rio Clinic …’
He stopped, catching the look on her face. ‘You did book her in there, didn’t you?’ The smooth voice was now hard edged.
‘It was full. You know how it is. First come, first served. And the American referrals always manage to get in first. I had to send them to the Agrippina Delicata.’
‘For Christ’s sake!’
‘Don’t worry. It was a one-off slip-up. It won’t happen this time. It’ll be OK. Trust me.’
‘Lucky for us that she was burned to death. We might not be so lucky a second time.’
He looked at her, edgy at the prospect of a patient undergoing surgery somewhere there’d been problems. Miss Porter and her lawsuit would have ruined them. Miss Porter had been a mudpack regular and had then gone on to have surgery. Firstly she’d reacted to the mud. That should have told them something about her sensitivity. Then she’d had surgery in a less-than-first-class clinic. Neither should have happened.
‘Don’t worry, Roger. Everything will be fine.’
Her voice was like silk. So was her skin, of which he had intimate knowledge.
He thought of the clinic, thought of that bloody woman with lesions, then thought of the money Mrs Van Rocher was paying for her treatment. The money made him feel better. It all added up to a very nice arrangement and a very nice profit.
‘Let’s hope so.’
Dr Dexter stretched his arms, rotating them in order to free the stiffness in his back muscles. ‘We aim to please. Now, my dear,’ he said, his demeanour changing from professional to suggestive. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
Her perfectly pink lips swept into a smile. Reaching up behind her with both hands, she let loose her pale blonde hair.
A low moan rumbled in the doctor’s throat.
The tip of Serena’s delectable tongue flicked along her lower lip. At the same time her hips undulated; sexily seductive.
‘I have this ache, doctor.’ She was fingering the buttons of her white coat as though she couldn’t find them and certainly couldn’t unfasten them without his help.
Dr Dexter got the message and unbuttoned his own white coat. ‘Perhaps you need to lie down and show me where you feel the pain.’
Chapter Eleven
Karen plastered the mudpack on Honey’s face. It didn’t feel bad. It didn’t smell bad either. After that she helped her into the bath of warm mud. She felt like a profiterole being slowly dunked in chocolate.
The vessel holding the mud could vaguely be described as a bath; a horse trough would be nearer the mark, though its likeness to a coffin couldn’t be entirely ignored. This particular trough had a lid that fastened on either side of her. The lid covered her full length up to her chin. She figured she must look a right fright, her eyes like blobs of cream, twin centres of a chocolate base.
She’d been immersed in here for two hours and figured that was long enough. The problem was that the attendant had told her that four hours was best if she were to receive the full benefit of the treatment.
‘It’ll make you look years younger,’ the perfectly formed Karen told her.
‘I’m scared.’
Karen laughed. ‘Whatever for?’
‘That woman that got murdered …’
‘Don’t be silly.’
Karen Pinker bustled around her, picking up her towelling robe and throwing a towel over her arm.
The sudden ringing of a phone seemed to make the girl start.
‘I won’t be long.’
She rushed off without a backward glance. A door close by slammed shut, reopened and slammed again.
She’ll be back, Honey told herself and didn’t mind at all.
Warm mud and that pampered feeling combined to great effect; she dozed. When she woke up the mud had turned cold. She couldn’t tell for sure how long she’d been in here, but surely she was only supposed to be in here for half an hour?
Where was Karen?
Where was anyone for that matter?
She began to wriggle. OK, the siren voice of vanity had urged her to stick with it. It wouldn’t hurt at all to look years younger.
The problem was that the mud was making her itch and it was getting quite worrying. What if it wasn’t just plain old itchiness she was experiencing but some odd allergy to sticky mud – Hawaiian pumice mud in particular? Did she have an inbuilt aversion to the stuff?
She tried to remember other incidents when she’d come into close contact with mud. Had she broken out in a rash at any time? Thinking about mud took he
r back to her childhood. Mud had played a big part in her life as a child, mud pies first and foremost. Had she itched then? She didn’t think so.
On the other hand this was allegedly Hawaiian pumice mud, which was a totally different thing from good old British mud. It had to be. Pumice was the stuff that came out of volcanoes as lava, then cooled down into mud and bits of stone that was good for scraping rough skin from the feet.
The nearest volcano to Bath was either in Iceland or Italy, so it was pretty definite that she’d never had the pleasure of playing or laying in it before. Hawaiian pumice mud had to be totally different to the sort she was used to, which got deposited on the banks of the River Avon and swirled up and down the Bristol Channel.
An irritating itchiness had erupted in her left buttock. It was difficult to get to.
She swore and wriggled a bit more but to no effect. The itch was still there. It was no good. She just had to get out of there.
She called out. ‘Hello! Is anybody there?’
Scratching itchy bits while immersed in mud was not entirely successful. The problem was that the mud was still there being irritating, slopping along the length of her body. Her fingers scratched but the cause remained.
It suddenly occurred to her that nasty things lived in mud – like worms and crabs. Fleas too.
Panic set in. ‘Hey, I’m being eaten by mud worms. They’re carnivorous. I swear they are.’
Despite her unsubstantiated claims that she was being eaten by flesh-eating worms, nobody came.
Breathing in until she could squeeze out beneath the board – they must have got that idea from a medieval torture chamber – she prised herself up into a semi-sitting position, her shoulders pushing against the edge of the lid. Bringing her fists up, she punched against the lid. Being a fairly loose fitting, the little clasps holding it in place were shaken free. One of them sprang. One side of the lid lifted. One side was enough. She was out of here!
Raising one hand, she pushed on the rim of the trough, brought up her knees and slid out from beneath the lid. It wasn’t easy. The gap was pretty narrow, but with a bit of manoeuvring she popped out like a cork from a bottle accompanied by a loud slurp.
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 5