Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  She looked down at herself. ‘God, I look like the Creature from the Black Lagoon!’

  Frightening memories of watching a flick on late night TV came back to her. The babysitter had been asleep. Honey had had total control of the situation. A curious kid and a mud-dripping monster. She’d loved it – but that was back then, – not now. And she was looking like the monster.

  Guiltily, she eyed the mud splats on the floor. Each step she took left a muddy footprint. She needed a shower. Now where were they?

  There was another consideration to be borne in mind in her hunt for the showers – all she was wearing was mud. Mud from top to toe.

  Karen Perfect had trotted off out of the glossy white door and back along the white-painted passage. Honey recalled passing a bathroom out there, half way between the treatment room and the changing room. It was bound to have a shower.

  Squelching and leaving distorted footprints, she made her way carefully, arms held out from her sides in case she slipped.

  Bliss! She found a bathroom.

  Half a minute later she was standing under a power shower. Mud-coloured water swirled around her feet. She watched fascinated as the white flesh she remembered began to show through. First her upper torso appeared, then her lower torso and then her limbs. The mud around her ankles and feet was proving the worst to get off, mainly because what didn’t get washed away in the water was gathering there. She looked like she was wearing a pair of clay galoshes.

  Taking a firm grip of the shower attachment she trained it on her feet. ‘Get gone!’

  The clay boots obligingly disintegrated. Finally she was clean, every trace gone down the drain, to the sea and in time, possibly back to Hawaii.

  Smoothing back her hair she let out a deep sigh. At last she was clean.

  A quick glance in the full-length mirror showed no sign of injury but a few red marks in the itchy areas. It was hard not to scratch but she didn’t go there. It would all clear up in time – she hoped.

  Now all she had to do was towel dry and go back to her room for a lie down. Though on second thoughts perhaps she shouldn’t. Lying down meant dreaming. She’d dream of food. Her stomach rumbled at the thought of it. Carrot juice and vitamin supplements were no substitute for a sirloin of prime Aberdeen Angus. With chips. And garlic mushrooms, and all liberally sprinkled with Worcester sauce.

  Just the thought of decent food made her almost faint away. And this after one night?

  ‘Drat,’ she muttered. ‘Now where are those towels?’

  She eyed the single glass shelf. Nothing there. She looked inside a glass locker of chrome frame and smoked glass. Nothing. What was even more surprising was that there was nobody around. It made her wonder about the day Lady Macrottie died. Was there nobody around on that day too?

  The prospect that she might end up as another mud-caked casualty of neglect made her put a spurt on. She had to get dressed. Sleuthing was a big no-no when you were naked.

  Another locker beneath the sink looked promising. That’s where they would have to be. Whoever heard of a bathroom without towels?

  Yippee! There was – not a very big one, granted, but a towel all the same. Just one. No doubt Karen Perfect had gone off to get a fresh batch.

  Honey held the towel up to the light. She had a decision to make here: wipe herself dry with it or cover her rude bits and make her way to her room where she knew a big terry towel sat waiting for her.

  It had to be the latter and even though she wasn’t likely to meet a man on her way back to her room, who knows if it was window-cleaning day, and window cleaners were always male. It was also rumoured they saw a lot of action and bare flesh on their rounds. The point was that she didn’t want them to see HER bare flesh.

  The towel was causing a problem. If she pulled it up over her bosoms her bottom was exposed. If she pulled it down to cover her bum her boobs popped up over the top of the towel.

  She reminded herself that she was on a case here and investigating agents lacked gravitas if they hung around semi-naked.

  She spotted a roll of black plastic bin liners and pulled one free. A few adjustments and she’d be OK. With a hole ripped in the bottom and one more on either side it did the job. Her bosoms were covered and the tiny towel was now tied round her waist and doing the job over her bum.

  Looking like a refugee from a punk rock festival, she cracked open the door and took a look outside. All was peaceful. The doors to other treatment rooms were firmly shut, a red ‘no entry’ light switched on outside each one. Corridors went off corridors.

  Why is it, she asked herself, that old buildings designed as houses and converted into something different always have inexplicable corridors? If anyone was going to take a wrong turning it was her.

  Padding over the pale cream carpet she came to a ‘T’ junction. The sign on the wall said Consulting Rooms, Reception and Rooms One to Six. Room Four was hers. The other direction pointed to Reception only. Confusing, but that was the way it was in old houses. All roads lead to Rome – or in this case Reception.

  ‘Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhh!’

  The sound stopped her dead. The sign on the door said Special Treatments.

  ‘You’re not kidding,’ she murmured.

  She listened. That was it as far as the loud noises were concerned. The rest were kind of muffled.

  Reminding herself what she was here for, she pressed her ear closer.

  Subdued sounds were all she could hear but she didn’t need a diagram. What caused that sound was nothing to do with seaweed wraps, aromatherapy or reflexology – though the latter did have a part to play.

  Best not to butt in, she decided. Not in this getup.

  All would have been well; she would have gone without anyone being the wiser, specifically the two people on the other side of the door.

  Unfortunately the tail end of one of her black bin bags caught on the door handle. If the bag had been of the cheaper kind it would have ripped and she would have sidled off, the room’s occupants unaware that she was even there. But The Beauty Spot was a top-notch establishment; no economy lines for this place! The bag was a strong one.

  Her first reaction was to jerk away. The bag held. She bounced back then forwards again, still attached to the handle.

  The door flew open.

  A George Clooney lookalike with grey hair and velvet brown eyes was frowning at her. Serena Sarabande looked livid, an uncharacteristic pinkness suffusing her cheeks.

  ‘I’m sorry …’ Honey blurted.

  The pair of them might have said something right away if their eyes hadn’t been fixed on her outfit.

  An explanation was in order.

  Honey managed a sickly smile. ‘You would never believe just how itchy that mud can be. Must be hard bits of pumice still in it,’ she said with a light laugh. ‘I just had to get out. Oh, and by the way, you could do with putting a few more towels in that bathroom. This one …’

  Seeing their eyes open wider as they swooped downwards, and feeling a sudden draught, she looked down too. The towel was around her ankles.

  ‘Ohmigod!’

  Turning pink all over she swooped down to retrieve the tiny towel. Then she was off, taking her towel, her blushes and her semi-naked form off to her room.

  If she’d had chocolate she would have consoled herself. She briefly wondered if the toilet paper was made from rice paper. Rice was edible – even in processed form.

  Instead she consoled herself with a hot bath and the fact that these people were used to seeing plenty of naked women. No problem.

  Following Honey’s swift spring along the corridor and out of sight, Dr Dexter and Serena closed the door behind them.

  Serena eyed Dexter nervously. ‘How long do you think she was there?’

  ‘I always said you make too much noise.’

  ‘Never mind that,’ barked Serena. ‘I meant we were talking about the clinic and the money our latest old bitch is paying us. Do you think she heard that?’

  H
is eyes were heavily hooded and looked almost closed as he thought about it, his chin cupped in his hand.

  ‘Who knows? But we can’t take any chances. We’re too close to the end of this. You’ll have to keep a closer eye on her. We have her address. I’ll get Mandril to make enquiries.’

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘Room nineteen, sir. Here’s your key.’

  The man Lindsey was checking in studied the key in the palm of his hand with interest.

  ‘A real key. Well there’s a novelty.’

  Lindsey knew what he was getting at. Modern hotels didn’t use old iron keys. The Tower of London had old iron keys, useful for locking up traitors and people past monarchs hadn’t taken kindly to. Old keys equalled old buildings.

  ‘We’re a listed building,’ Lindsey informed him. ‘There are rules as to how modern you can go.’

  She conveyed the information in her usual courteous way, though something about Mr David Carpenter unnerved her. It might have been the way he was taking everything in, though furtively, as though he didn’t want her to notice.

  Working in a hotel had made her observant and very sensitive to people. He was looking around as though searching for someone. Everything about him advertised brute force and ignorance. It was his shape that did it. Those outside the hospitality trade wouldn’t know that people could be split into shapes. Her mother for instance was an oval. Her grandmother was a very thin rectangle. Mr Carpenter was definitely a square.

  He had a square-ish face; the bristly haircut didn’t help. His eyes were little chinks of blue above square-ish cheeks. His chin was square. His body was square. Although he wasn’t that tall – possibly five-eight – he looked powerful. She could imagine him in a kilt tossing a caber, though she didn’t think he was into that. If his name had been MacDonald perhaps he would be.

  He patted the key into the pocket of his navy blue blazer, bent down, and picked up his bag – just one bag – a navy blue holdall that might have contained clothes though it could just as easily have contained sports equipment, a musical instrument, or an assault rifle.

  She gave him directions to his room, accompanying them with the requisite friendly smile as though she felt comfortable in his presence – which she did not.

  He made a disparaging noise. ‘I’ve stayed in better.’

  ‘So why stay here? There are plenty of hotels in Bath. You don’t have to stay.’

  Something in her tone seemed to pull him up short.

  ‘No need to be defensive.’

  ‘Isn’t there?’

  Business was business but she wanted him gone.

  He seemed to sense it. ‘Your employer is lucky. You’re very loyal. Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Long enough.’ She made no excuses for being brusque. She didn’t like him.

  ‘Do you enjoy it?’

  She reminded herself that he was paying the bill. ‘Yes I do. It’s a very nice hotel.’

  Lindsey felt an unexpected sense of pride as the man scrutinized the elegant reception area. The walls were a chill blue and the mirrors, chandeliers, and paintings were very Louis Quatorze in style. It hadn’t long been done – a bit haphazardly after the interior designer had snuffed it and a kindly German had got stuck in to the job.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  The comment was seemingly made to himself.

  Lindsey heard. Suspicion was like an unidentifiable smell beneath her nose. David Carpenter had looked around Reception as though he were giving it marks out of ten. On top of everything else he was a single man with little luggage and a searching look to his eyes. And he’d come now when her mother was away, the worst time to choose.

  The terrible truth hit her. The hotel inspector! It had to be him!

  First priority – tell the chef. Then the chambermaids. Then Dumpy Doris, who was pushing the vacuum cleaner around the restaurant.

  Luckily she was wearing trainers. Speed mattered.

  ‘Anna! Take over! And get the polish out.’

  Anna looked perplexed. ‘You want me to polish? I polished this morning.’

  ‘It doesn’t smell strong enough,’ Lindsey hissed. ‘Spray it around a bit too. On the carpet will do. Make the place smell nice.’

  ‘OK.’ Anna nodded slowly while looking at Lindsey as though she had suddenly lost her mind.

  Lindsey dashed to the kitchen, being careful to knock before she entered. ‘Damn. Damn. Damn,’ she muttered as she went in.

  Smudger was using a wooden tenderizer on a batch of veal escalopes. The mallet paused in mid-air as his eyes met hers.

  ‘You’re going to tell me we have a problem,’ he said solemnly. He didn’t look at her as though he was mad. He looked at her as though he might get mad if he didn’t like her answer.

  Lindsey took a deep breath. Her heart danced on, the quickstep slowed to a fast waltz.

  ‘I think we have a special guest staying in room nineteen.’ Even to her own ears she sounded almost awestruck.

  ‘I don’t suppose the Queen’s graced us with her presence.’

  ‘I know you’d like it to be, but it’s not.’

  ‘Shame. Rumour has it she’s been shopping up in Milsom Street again. You’d think she might pop in for one of my curries or a home-made baguette with goat’s cheese and cranberry sauce.’

  ‘I heard that rumour too and it’s a shame that she doesn’t, but I’m afraid I have to disappoint you. Perhaps she’s waiting for the January sales. Everyone’s on a budget these days.’

  ‘Shame. So who is it?’

  ‘Think worst case scenario.’

  Still with his mallet in salutary pose, Smudger raised his gaze to the ceiling.

  ‘Now let me think.’ His gaze transferred to her face. ‘Give us a clue!’

  Another deep breath. Lindsey’s heart was almost back to normal.

  ‘OK. If I tell you he’ll be examining the plug hole upstairs, checking on the booze measures in the bar, eating table d’hôte this evening, and ordering everything at breakfast, will that help?’

  Smudger’s mallet gradually came to land on the table with a loud bang. ‘Shit! The hotel inspector!’

  Up in his room David Carpenter was blissfully unaware that the hotel’s head chef would like to bring a mallet down on his head. He was doing what all hotel guests do: testing the bed springs, seeking out the kettle, and examining the view out of the window.

  He liked the view. The window looked out over the street. The pavement was wide. There wasn’t too much traffic, just enough to remind you that you were in the middle of the city.

  The green hills surrounding the city of Bath were dotted with multi-storied houses. Most had been built in the nineteenth and eighteenth centuries to be a coach drive away from all that Bath had to offer.

  It had offered a lot. It still did.

  He’d wandered the city centre before coming here. The street performers were particularly interesting. Some pretended to be statues, keeping so still that pigeons roosted on their shoulders.

  Some were quite talented. He’d watched a girl standing beneath the colonnade by Bath Abbey. She’d been singing an operatic aria and singing it well. Passers-by had thought the same, an unusual number throwing money into the open bag in front of her.

  He hadn’t of course. He didn’t believe in charity. He only believed in himself and the job in hand.

  The road outside was wide enough to complement the pavements. There was plenty enough space for cars to park, leaving room for two-way traffic.

  He spotted a traffic warden coming from the direction of Laura Place. Like ninety-five per cent of the population, he didn’t have much time for traffic wardens. He’d shoot them all if he had his way.

  He watched as she walked slowly past his car, one heavily shoed foot following the other. Not elegant; not the shoes and not the traffic warden. Wide in the beam and broad in the shoulders, she waddled as she walked. Damn it. He didn’t like fat people. They were eating because they were sick of life. Stuff
the views of the politically correct; it was his opinion and he was sticking to it.

  His eyes narrowed with vicious intent as a thought occurred to him. Turning back into the room he went to the bed, unzipped his soft grey holdall, and brought out a towel-wrapped bundle.

  He went back to the window and placed the bundle on the sill. Carefully he unfolded the towel, exposing the item within.

  The small-bore Magnum was basically designed for a woman; it fitted into a purse, a handbag, or even a large pocket. Added to that it was light and although it didn’t have a great range, it was good as a defensive weapon. Not that it wasn’t lethal.

  Raising his left arm in front of his face at chin level, he brought the gun up in his right hand, while resting it on his left forearm. Closing one eye he aimed the muzzle at the loitering traffic warden. The bitch! Her pen was poised in one hand; her pad of parking tickets in the other. She deserved to die, he thought to himself. What civilized person would do a job like that?

  The gun was aimed at the dead centre of her forehead. If he let off a round now, she’d be dead. He squeezed the trigger. If the gun had been loaded the traffic warden would be dead by now. But it wasn’t. Nothing happened except that David Carpenter was satisfied that the old magic was not dead. He could still kill if he had to. But that wasn’t what he was here for – not yet anyway.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Day Two. The pampering! Massage with beautifully smelling oils.

  Honey was lying face down with just a towel covering her behind. Karen Pinker – Miss Perfect – was giving her a massage. The aroma of the oils being rubbed into her back was calming. The rubbing itself was relaxing. Dozing off was more than likely if she didn’t keep focused; she was here to investigate – her eyelids weren’t quite on board with this.

  Now where to start her questioning?

  Sugar and spice – a little bit of sympathy hiding a teeny weeny question …

  ‘Uh … Sorry about yesterday. Hope I didn’t get you into any trouble, but that mud – you’d be amazed where it gets and how it itches when it gets there. And I couldn’t find my robe.’