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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘My fault,’ said Karen. ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone that long. Patricia was sick but had a client booked in. I had to cover. The robe was in the bathroom though. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.’

  Miss Karen Pinker sounded embarrassed at what had happened. Honey was sure the girl’s cheeks were turning pink. Miss Pinker was getting pinker!

  The robe had not been in the bathroom. She guessed that must have been the excuse she’d given Serena Sarabande.

  Honey recalled hearing a phone ringing. That was when Karen had rushed off. Now what would cause a young woman to abandon her job and rush off like that? Easy peasy. A boyfriend.

  ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

  There didn’t seem much point in not coming right out with it.

  Karen coloured up even more.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A serious boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s gorgeous though. No boy has ever treated me like he does.’

  ‘Wow! Lucky you!’

  Karen was beaming.

  ‘What’s his name?’

  She simpered a bit and blushed some more. ‘Dec.’

  As in Declan, Honey presumed. The phone call had to be from him.

  ‘I understood from Ms Sarabande that treatment is usually on a one to one basis. Obviously problems can arise if someone is off ill. Does it often happen that you have to cover for a colleague?’

  She detected a thoughtful pause before Karen Pinker answered. ‘She couldn’t help being ill. I couldn’t blame her for it. You have to help out when someone’s ill.’

  ‘… if you want to keep your job …’

  Honey didn’t voice what she was thinking but considered it likely that Karen could be out of a job if she refused to cover for absent colleagues.

  ‘I’m sorry if I got you into any trouble.’

  ‘You didn’t – not really, but I would have been along shortly.’

  Honey wasn’t fooled. The second half of the sentence sounded like a reprimand.

  ‘I’m sorry I broke the catch on the mud bath, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. See?’ She shifted the towel so Karen could see the remainder of the red marks where she’d been scratching herself.

  Karen kept massaging but slowed enough to take in the red whip-like marks.

  ‘Oh yes. The lid is designed to keep in the warmth. The mud is a natural product, but even so, it does affect some people like that. Not generally though.’

  Something in Honey’s brain clicked. The woman who had died in a fire above a bakery shop had complained of lesions. Honey herself had broken out in red marks. Doherty hadn’t mentioned the deceased Lady Macrottie having any red marks or lesions, so she presumed she had not. No reason for killing there then.

  Still, this line of questioning seemed to be going places. It was worth persisting.

  Question two coming up!

  ‘Is it an allergy?’

  Karen’s response was immediate.

  ‘Oh no! I expect it was something you ate before coming here, or possibly it could just be that you’re unusually sensitive to mud.’

  Well it certainly wouldn’t be a reaction to the food I’m getting here, Honey thought, her chin resting disconsolately on her folded arms. Today’s lunch had been far from gourmet – or plentiful. Parsnip gratin – without the cheese – some kind of soy alternative. Apple and sultana terrine. Compote of carrot and grapefruit served with soured cream. The cream was the clincher. She’d licked that plate for all it was worth. Luckily it hadn’t had a pattern. It wouldn’t have been there after the licking she’d given it.

  The other women had looked at her in amazement.

  Pride was the first casualty of her hunger. ‘Anyone not want theirs?’

  No chance. They’d eaten theirs too.

  ‘I was never allergic when I was making mud pies,’ Honey said to Karen.

  Karen laughed. She had a pretty, tinkling laugh. Honey found herself thinking that men must find Karen’s prettiness and tinkling laughter attractive. She was a trophy waiting for a man aged over forty-five and currently going through a mid-life crisis. His other attributes were likely to be a villa in Marbella and a yacht in Monaco.

  ‘I read something in the paper about someone suing the clinic when she broke out in lesions.’

  There was a definite pause. ‘Ah yes. Ms Porter.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘She wasn’t one of my ladies. She was one of Patricia’s.’

  ‘Did she get itchy in the mud?’

  ‘I don’t know. As I’ve just said, she wasn’t one of my ladies.’

  The girl’s reply was brusquely delivered. In Honey’s experience, if someone who had been pleasant began snapping they had something to hide. Wisdom such as hers was not present in ordinary human beings. You had to be involved in the catering and hospitality trade to acquire the nose of a sniffer dog for that kind of thing.

  Such experience had been gained as a result of guests trying to check themselves out along with a few mementoes of their stay like toilet rolls, a linen tablecloth, or a pair of bedside lamps – the latter obtained by cutting through the live cables. The perpetrator had got away with his life and the hotel hadn’t burned down, but he hadn’t got away with the bedside lamps. A wire had been trailing from his suitcase and the conical glass shades had clanged against the reception desk when his wife bent down. She’d secreted them in her brassiere. She was an ample woman. In Honey’s opinion it must have been a tight squeeze.

  ‘Was Lady Macrottie one of yours?’

  She felt Karen’s hands stiffen on her back. ‘Yes.’ The sharp tone was gone. She sounded frightened or horrified. The tone could be interpreted either way. Big dollops of sympathy were needed.

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible, Karen. How awful for you to find someone dead like that.’

  ‘I didn’t discover her. Magda did.’

  Ah, yes.

  ‘Just as well you weren’t here that day. Or were you on the phone?’

  Honey sensed Karen’s hands stiffen on her back. She’d hit a raw nerve. The phone again.

  ‘Declan phoned you?’

  ‘He …’

  ‘Karen! Is anything wrong here?’

  Honey recognized Serena’s voice and decided to be forthright.

  ‘Karen was telling me about the day of the murder. It must have been awful for you all.’

  ‘Dr Dexter wants to go over the Botox list with you for the morning. You might as well do that now.’

  There was no doubting that Serena was ordering Karen to clear off, and clear off she did.

  ‘So, Mrs Driver. Shall we recommence where Karen left off?’

  Serena’s fingers were long and cold. They were also rock-hard, exerting more pressure than Karen had done.

  The heels of Serena’s hands kneaded Honey’s shoulders and back. Her tension dissipated; it wouldn’t dare do anything else.

  The message was obvious. Serena Sarabande was not amused. Honey decided that there was nothing for it but to be honest.

  ‘We were discussing the murder. It must have been terrible for Magda – discovering the body like that.’

  The hands changed position. The fingers slid over between her neck and her shoulders, thumbs pressing against the nape of her neck.

  Honey gulped. She’d read somewhere that professional assassins could kill people like that. She reminded herself that this was a health and beauty spa, not a killing field.

  Still, she was nothing if not gutsy.

  Serena more or less repeated what Doherty had already told her.

  ‘We had an intruder. A tramp. We think he came in looking for food or drugs.’

  Drugs, decided Honey. Not food. It wouldn’t be worth his while.

  ‘I take it they haven’t found him.’ Of course they hadn’t. She knew better than Serena did.

  ‘Not up till now.’

  ‘I take it you’ve stepped up your security as a result of that.’

  ‘Absolutel
y. Everything valuable is locked away and as an added precaution we have installed more security cameras.’

  Honey mused on Serena’s statement about everything valuable being locked away.

  ‘I suppose that includes my phone and everything else in my bag.’

  ‘It does indeed. For the duration of your stay personal items are locked firmly out of your reach. That includes your cell phone – and other non-essentials.’

  Because she was lying on her front she couldn’t see Serena’s face, but she could imagine that face being crossed by a knowing smile. The smuggling of calorific goodies was nothing new to this babe. Still, she did have supper to look forward to – for what it was worth. Her stomach rumbled. It sounded quite vocal.

  Get me out of here! Give me food!

  Soon. Quite soon.

  Serena Sarabande was not amused. Her perfectly shaped lips in her perfectly shaped face held no hint of a smile. It wasn’t often she escorted clients to their rooms, but she made an exception for Hannah Driver. The client had looked at her and enquired the time for ‘lights out’. She’d said it laughingly. Serena didn’t find it funny.

  Once she was sure that Mrs Driver was safely behind the door of her room, she made her way back along the corridor to Roger Dexter’s consulting room.

  The light above his door was glowing a steady green. He had no patients, so all she did was to give a terse knock before going in.

  Her face flushed with anger at the sight that greeted her. Dr Roger Dexter was in a clinch with Karen Pinker. They were leaning against the desk for support, his leg wrapped around her thigh. A little more of an angle and Karen would be flat out on the desk with Dexter on top of her.

  ‘Serena!’

  Surprisingly for one caught out, Dr Roger Dexter looked almost amused.

  He straightened. With one hand he smoothed back his sleek black hair, with the other he zipped up his fly.

  Karen was buttoning up her blouse. Her cheeks were pink and the flush was swiftly travelling down her neck.

  Dr Dexter smiled. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  ‘Obviously not!’

  Serena glowered at him. Not that it did much good. Whatever Dr Dexter wanted, Dr Dexter got. He had an expensive lifestyle and a rampant libido. Both were well taken care of, mostly by her. Just lately she’d suspected his loins of travelling to pastures new. He’d denied it of course. But now she had proof.

  She turned her blazing eyes on the very flustered Karen.

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘Take these,’ Roger added. He handed her the client records she’d been sent to collect.

  Head lowered, Karen didn’t look at Serena as she scurried from the room.

  Serena slammed the door after her.

  Roger Dexter went behind his desk and began to take off his white coat.

  Serena’s eyes narrowed as she looked at the man she thought she loved.

  ‘How much more do you want, Roger?’

  He smirked at her, one side of his mouth lifting, one dark eyebrow raised above one brown velvet eye.

  ‘I’d like to die a multi-millionaire.’

  ‘That wasn’t what I meant, but whilst we’re on the subject, is there such a thing for you as too much money as well as too much sex? When do you intend to stop?’

  He was slow answering. He fixed her with a triumphant look, a look that said ‘I know that you want me.’

  The bastard! He was right of course. He knew damned well that just one look from him and she was on fire. She would do anything for him. She had done anything he’d wanted, supported him in his business interests even though they were dicey and eventually there would be a price to pay.

  ‘As long as stupid women pay me extra to pack them off to a third-rate plastic surgeon, I shall keep taking their money.’

  When he smiled there was no charm like that he reserved for his patients. Instead his lips had a surly, cruel twist.

  ‘Shame you’re no good at surgery yourself.’

  The comment was meant to hurt. Dr Dexter had a wonderful bedside manner. He was pretty good between the sheets too, but when it came to actually nipping at bags beneath the eyes and boob enhancement, he just didn’t cut the mustard. He’d failed the exams. Understandably he hated being reminded of the fact.

  His anger hardened the velvet eyes. Recognizing his temper was rising, Serena curbed her desire to say more.

  Slowly he emerged from behind the desk, his eyes not leaving her face, mesmerizing and frightening.

  Serena felt herself go cold. He was going to strike her. It wouldn’t be the first time. She had to divert him, greedy, egotistical pig that he was.

  ‘She has to go! She’s been talking to that woman. Mrs Driver. I think she’s spying on us. I think she’s from the insurance firm.’

  He stopped, one set of fingers resting tripod style on the desk. He frowned.

  ‘Mandril hasn’t reported back yet. Her address is the Green River Hotel. He’ll get back to us when he can.’

  ‘Soon I hope.’

  ‘What did Karen tell her?’

  ‘I caught them talking about Lady Macrottie and about Pansy Porter. But that’s not the only thing. The mud affected her. She was scratching.’

  A deep sigh erupted from Roger’s body as he threw back his head in exasperation.

  ‘Another insurance claim! We can bloody well do without that, old fruit.’

  The change in tone, erring towards affectionate, made her bold. Pressing herself against his side Serena fingered the nape of his neck, twirling the dark soft hairs growing there around her index finger.

  ‘There are insurance claims and then there are insurance claims. See what I do for you, my sweet?’

  He smiled, and if she had cared to analyse that smile she would have shivered at the selfishness within it. But she didn’t go there. No matter what he did she would always be at his beck and call. She couldn’t help it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andre Pietro considered himself a maitre d’ of the highest order, even though he was only termed a head waiter.

  His piercing eyes, small and furtive as a ferret’s, noticed if a guest was without water on the table, or had been waiting too long for a course, or dared to open a packet of cigarettes in a public dining area.

  He had the air of someone from a finer restaurant, a more upmarket hotel. He was here because it was convenient for his girlfriend and baby son. Being suave, svelte, and having a superior manner, he didn’t give the impression of being married and a family man. But that was the way Andre was; professional at work, patriarch at home. He kept his two worlds strictly apart. So far, no problems.

  Having been told that David Carpenter was very likely a hotel inspector sent by the Automobile Association, Andre had given him one of the tables by the windows. By virtue of the cellar below which itself had windows, there was a gap of some eight feet between the building and the road. From the window tables it was possible to look out at the passing world without the passing world being able to look in.

  The hotel inspector had ordered the scallop starter and the steak main course. Andre had made it his task and his alone to collect the dirty plate from the main course. The head chef, Smudger Smith, was waiting for him in the kitchen.

  ‘What did he say?’

  Smudger’s brow was damp with perspiration. The kitchen was hot, but Andre knew by the wild look in the chef’s eyes that the sweaty brow was due to nerves more than heat.

  Putting down the dishes, Andre rolled his eyes. ‘He said it was OK.’

  ‘OK? OK? The bastard! I sweated my bollocks off over that steak. It was perfect! Fucking perfect!’

  ‘Pleeeease …’ murmured Andre, closing his eyes in exasperation. ‘There is no need for such bad language.’

  Impervious to anything except the hotel inspector’s response to his cooking, Smudger muttered further expletives. His eyes glazed over with what Andre could only interpret as temporary madness. He shuddered at the thought of past chef
s he’d known. Some could easily have committed murder. There was no guarantee that Smudger couldn’t rise to the occasion and commit murder too, given the right incentive.

  Smudger tried again. ‘He must have said something.’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped Andre. ‘He said he’d have the raspberry crème brûlée.’

  Smudger blinked. He seemed to let it sink in before he came to. ‘Right. Raspberry crème brûlée it is. The best ever! The bloody best ever!’

  Determined to elicit some comment from the hotel inspector – however painful – he was off like a greyhound, dashing around the kitchen, gathering ingredients, dishes, and pans – and all for one guest.

  Andre watched in amazement with a tight expression on his finely chiselled face. Sucking in his cheeks and pursing his lips, he made one final observation.

  ‘Hotel inspectors do not usually make comment until they check out.’

  Smudger waved an egg whisk in his direction. ‘Trust me. He’s all that. Lindsey spotted the signs.’

  Andre let sleeping dogs lie, concentrating on taking the main courses out for two well-known local businessmen. Catching snatches of conversation, it appeared they were bidding for land on which to build a series of retirement apartments.

  ‘Enjoy,’ he said to them.

  Noting that the hotel inspector’s wine glass was drained, he went to his table next.

  ‘A little more, sir?’

  ‘Certainly. I wouldn’t pay for a whole bottle unless I was going to drink it, now would I.’

  The man’s tone was surprisingly surly. Hotel inspectors were usually courteous, even in a hotel that might have been running alive with rats and cockroaches. If any of his staff had upset the man, they’d be for it. As he poured another measure into the glass, Andre’s eyes flitted from one waiter and waitress to another. None of them looked flustered. None of them looked as though they’d refused him another bread roll or spilt gravy into his lap.

  As he poured he sensed the man’s eyes on him. Like the true professional that he was, Andre did not meet the look. Like all good staff and servants it was best to pretend that he hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Tell me,’ said the man. ‘Do you know a Mrs Hannah Driver?’

  ‘Of course.’