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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why should I be party to what he does? He only washes dishes here. It’s not as though he’s irreplaceable!’

  His action did not go unnoticed. The Japanese couple had fallen silent. Mr Okinara was rising slowly from his seat. His wife placed a restraining hand on his arm. He dislodged it gently, rose to his full height, and padded towards the reception desk.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  The eyes behind the glasses Mr Okinara wore were dark and quick. He was also light on his feet. She hadn’t heard one single footstep. It crossed her mind that he might be proficient in unarmed combat. She certainly hoped so. A karate chop to Carlo Pratt’s neck would be most welcome – though not by Mr Pratt of course.

  Defiance flashed from the eyes of Luigi Benici’s messenger. There was no sign in the chiselled face of backing down. This was not good.

  Perhaps things might have got ugly if Lindsey hadn’t come back from lunch and Mary Jane hadn’t come tramping down the stairs like a herd of African elephants.

  ‘There’s a psychic fair going down at the sports hall today. I’m off there to give readings. Can’t wait,’ she said, barging into the small gap Mr Pratt had left between him and the reception desk. ‘This is my big break. It might even lead to writing a book or at least a regular newspaper column. How great would that be?’ She suddenly seemed to notice Mr Pratt and Mr Okinara. ‘Sorry, you guys. Am I interrupting something?’

  She looked from one to the other. Both men were shorter than her. Most people were shorter than Mary Jane.

  Mr Okinara was like a coiled spring or a high jumper psyching himself up to leap into the air. His black-eyed gaze never left Mr Pratt’s face – not that Mr Pratt was a man to be intimidated. However, it was pretty obvious from the look on his face that he knew a lost situation when he saw one. This scene was at an end. He could do nothing more. The smile transmuted into a lop-sided snarl.

  ‘I’ll be keeping an eye on you,’ he murmured.

  He threw Mr Okinara a menacing look before leaving. Mr Okinara’s stance remained solid, legs slightly parted, arms akimbo, and fists clenched.

  ‘You have a very bad aura,’ Mary Jane called after him.

  Mr Okinara was joined by his wife. ‘You are all right, Mrs Driver?’

  Honey took a deep breath. ‘I am now.’ She thanked Mr Okinara.

  He shook his head. ‘Think nothing of it.’

  Mary Jane was enthralled. ‘My, I bet you can do a deadly karate chop.’

  He laughed. ‘No, but I do like a pork chop.’ Husband and wife looked at each other and giggled.

  Honey couldn’t help giggling too, and soon Lindsey and Mary Jane were doing the same.

  ‘What are we all laughing at?’ Honey asked.

  ‘The joke,’ said Mr Okinara. His wife covered her face with her hands, tears of laughter streaming down her face.

  ‘It’s like this,’ said Mr Okinara. ‘We are Japanese. All I have to do is adopt the right stance and the minds of Western people run riot. I’m no Ninja, Mrs Driver, but all I have to do is look like one. People’s imagination does the rest. I blame Bruce Lee and the Ninja Turtles.’

  It was only fair to stand the Okinaras a meal that night. They’d saved the day. So had Mary Jane to some extent, but she was off out. The psychic fair beckoned and nothing could prise her away from the world of spirits and things that go bump in the night.

  However, there was still the problem of Luigi Benici and their washer-up.

  Honey and her daughter regarded each other with the same thought in mind. Honey voiced it first.

  ‘I think it’s time Clint was leaving us.’

  ‘So do I. Why is it men always leave the lavatory seat up?’

  ‘No idea. It could be a control thing.’

  Honey had had the good sense to stay at Doherty’s place overnight. Lindsey was not so lucky. She’d managed bravely, but good housekeeping went out of the window once a man moved in – even for one night.

  ‘I’ll have a word with him.’

  Leaving Lindsey covering Reception, Honey crossed the courtyard to the coach house she usually shared with her daughter. Clint had slept in her bed the night before and would have done so tonight. But this was serious. She was under threat and so, to some extent, was Lindsey.

  The sound of singing accompanied by the strong smell of jasmine greeted her as she entered. She followed her nose and knocked on the bathroom door.

  ‘Clint. I want a word with you.’

  ‘Come in. It’s OK. I’m covered with bubbles.’

  Just as she’d suspected, he was lounging in the bath, his legs spread wide and his feet resting on the roll-top lip.

  It was a heart-stopping moment, but luckily he was telling the truth about the bubbles. He’d gone overboard with half a bottle of Molton Brown shower and bath gel. The bubbles were piled up like small replicas of the Alps in winter.

  He was also wearing a pile of bubbles on his head. He beamed at her as though he hadn’t a care in the world. Well, she was about to burst his bubble.

  ‘A man named Carlo Pratt paid me a visit just now and he wasn’t collecting for charity. He was looking for you.’

  The smile vanished. ‘Shit!’

  Suddenly his eyes were looking her up and down. It made her feel uncomfortable. Could he possibly be thinking lustful thoughts at a time like this?

  ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Your arms and legs are OK?’

  Sitting down on the lavatory seat – once she’d put it down – she wiggled her legs and waved her arms.

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘I thought they might be broken.’

  ‘I’m unhurt – thanks to Mr Okinara.’

  ‘The Japanese who’s been buying all that junk – sorry – antiques?’

  ‘The very one.’

  ‘Is he a samurai or something?’ he asked, his eyes shining with admiration.

  ‘No. He’s an antiques collector. Mary Jane was there too. She dwarfed our friend Mr Pratt.’

  Clint’s earlier good humour had totally disappeared. He looked worried. ‘I’ve got to get out of this bath and then out of Bath.’

  ‘Do you have somewhere to go?’

  He nodded. ‘An old girlfriend of mine runs a smallholding in the Forest of Dean.’

  It crossed Honey’s mind that Clint had quite a lot of old girlfriends. For the most part they seemed on amiable terms, willing to take him in and protect him like they would a stray dog.

  ‘Somewhere isolated sounds right up your street.’

  He frowned. ‘They’ll be watching this place.’

  ‘I thought they might.’

  His eyes were round and scared when he looked at her. ‘You’ve got to help me, Mrs Driver. If Luigi Benici gets hold of me, I’m for the chop – literally.’

  Honey folded her arms and looked at him accusingly. ‘It’s your own fault. You should practise some self-control.’

  His grin had only half the intensity it usually did, but Clint wasn’t the sort to be down for long.

  ‘I prefer to practise my seduction techniques.’

  She got up from sitting on the lavatory seat. ‘Clint, I do not want your blood all over my carpet or your private bits blocking up my drains. I’ve only just had them cleared out. You’ve got no alternative but to give your friend a ring. Tell her to get the bed aired. You’re making arrangements to leave Bath tonight.’

  ‘I am? Entire or in easily managed packages?’

  ‘Don’t look so scared. You’re going in disguise, which is a pretty tall order for a guy covered in pictures. But you’re lucky, Clint. I’ve got a really creative daughter and a resident with a ghastly taste in clothes. You don’t mind dressing up as a woman – more precisely as a friend of Mary Jane?’

  He frowned but shook his head. ‘Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Right. Get out of the bath, phone your friend, and leave the rest to me.’

  Chapter
Nineteen

  Mary Jane kept a pretty frightening wardrobe. The colours were a little garish but the size was right. Her stuff would fit Clint and if she were willing, she was the one who could get him to his destination unharmed. Who could possibly suspect a very tall Californian driving a pale pink Cadillac? She was so noticeable she was bound to be ignored by Luigi Benici’s men.

  Prior to her doing the job, she insisted on knowing every detail.

  ‘Why aren’t you taking him to this ex-girlfriend’s place?’ She was bug-eyed about it and speaking in a hushed voice. ‘I gotta know the background to this caper – in case I’m interrogated.’

  Mary Jane was a keen James Bond fan and into big secrets. Honey put it in simple terms.

  ‘Because Pratt said he’d be watching here and that means he’ll be watching me – Lindsey too possibly. He knows we’re Clint’s friends and will put a tail on us. He won’t follow you.’

  Explaining everything to Mary Jane had gone smoothly enough. In fact Mary Jane was very excited about it.

  ‘It’s a long time since I had a wild adventure,’ she said wistfully, hands slapped together in front of her face. ‘The last time it was down in Tijuana. I hadn’t taken the trolley like other folks. I wanted a bit of excitement and what the hell kind of excitement do you get riding the trolley? I went down in my car and took a friend with me. She was as wild as me, but her husband went ballistic. “Who the hell goes to Tijuana in a pink Cadillac?” he asked. I told him that I did. That car is kind of my trademark, you know, and you may have noticed that I try to coordinate my outfits with the colour of the car. We kind of go together.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ murmured Honey. ‘Now. This does mean that you have to take Clint along with you to your psychic fair. You don’t mind that, do you? Only they need to see you leave, and we need to check that they don’t follow you, though I doubt it. After all it’s me and Lindsey they’re more likely to be watching, not you.’

  ‘Someone’s got us in the picture.’ During the conversation between her mother and Mary Jane, Lindsey had been watching what was happening outside. ‘There’s someone hanging around on the other side of the road. And there’s a car going around the one-way system. It keeps coming back, slips into a parking space, then goes again.’

  ‘Shall I bring the car around to the front door?’ asked Mary Jane.

  Honey shook her head. ‘No. Clint has to appear relaxed like any other American tourist heading out for the evening.’

  ‘In these shoes?’ Clint had made his entrance.

  ‘I did the best I could with the material I was given,’ smirked Lindsey.

  Two elderly gentlemen who’d asked to have their coffees in Reception – with brandy chasers – gave the new arrival the eye.

  Clint was a belter in a turquoise trouser suit, a white wig, and enough make-up to open a shop.

  Honey looked him up and down. ‘You’ll go down a treat at the over-sixties’ club.’

  Clint snarled.

  ‘Clint, you’ve only got yourself to blame. We’ve done our best for you.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. I know you have, but these shoes …’

  ‘Men have a bigger foot width than women. You’re lucky we found anything to fit you. Luckily for you a transvestite cage fighter left a pair behind when they had a convention here.’

  ‘You should have sent them on,’ grumbled Clint.

  ‘We couldn’t,’ Lindsey interjected. ‘His wife thought he was at a convention for model railway makers.’

  Mary Jane sighed with satisfaction. ‘It’s such a long time since I had a night out with a girlfriend.’

  Clint rolled his eyes as Honey tried to tie a chiffon scarf over his silky white wig.

  ‘Do I really have to wear that as well?’

  ‘Yes. In case your wig falls off.’

  ‘Are we driving with the hood down?’

  Honey shook her head and lowered her voice. ‘It hasn’t got a hood. It’s just got Mary Jane driving it.’

  Despite the make-up she fancied he turned paler. Well, there it was. She’d done her best.

  One of the old men came over, brushing close by where Clint was standing.

  ‘You fancy a tipple later?’ he said, his chin almost resting on Clint’s shoulder.

  Clint was speechless.

  ‘He’s from out of town,’ Mary Jane interrupted.

  The old guy’s face dropped. ‘Shame. Never mind,’ he said, brightening suddenly. ‘Next time. Right?’

  Clint visibly jumped as the old guy patted him on the rump, and exclaimed, ‘What a liberty …’

  Honey calmed him. ‘Now, now, Abigail. You mustn’t take offence.’

  ‘But he just …’

  ‘And how many times have you …’

  Honey eyed him accusingly. Clint got the message. He’d patted a few rumps in his time – pinched a few too. She found herself wondering if he’d ever go there again after being on the receiving end. Possibly. A man was a man for all that.

  ‘Hey,’ said Clint, being careful to keep his voice down. ‘I’m not sure I’d like to be called Abigail. Why can’t I choose my own name?’

  Honey zipped up the large shoulder bag in which she’d stuffed all of Clint’s clothes.

  ‘I asked Mary Jane to choose the name. It had to be a name that would pop into her head before your real one had chance to. Hence, Abigail.’

  ‘My dearest friend,’ said Mary Jane, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘My, but I miss her. So you’re kind of her spiritual replacement,’ she said tearfully before noisily blowing her nose into a man-size tissue.

  This seemed to please Clint. ‘Hey! That’s kind of nice. Am I as pretty as she was?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh!’ Clint sounded hurt.

  Mary Jane pressed her fingers against her forehead and closed her eyes.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Honey asked.

  ‘Just tuning in to Abigail’s vibes, asking her to be with us tonight,’ Mary Jane replied. Her eyes flicked open. ‘I do hope she comes through tonight, though you can never tell. Few psychics do animal crossings.’

  On hearing this, Clint looked for clarity from Honey and Honey obliged.

  ‘Abigail was Mary Jane’s cat.’

  ‘The best friend I ever had,’ Mary Jane stated.

  Lindsey was taking another peek through one of the huge Georgian windows. ‘Careful,’ her mother warned her. ‘They might be able to see in.’

  Lindsey pointed out that they’d need binoculars.

  Smudger chose that moment to come marching through the door on time to do his evening shift. Without his chef’s whites on he was a cool dude in baggy-bummed jeans and designer trainers. His hair was fired upright with enough gel to stick bricks together.

  ‘Hey! Did you know there’s a guy across the road eyeing this place through a pair of binoculars?’

  Honey nodded. ‘It had entered my mind.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Smudger’s voice trailed off at the same time as he took in the vision in the turquoise trouser suit, red high heels, and matching shoulder bag. Mary Jane had embellished the outfit with a bright red chiffon scarf festooned with the Stars and Stripes, explaining that it used to be Abigail’s.

  Clint began to scratch.

  Smudger looked Clint up and down.

  ‘Hi, Clint. Love the getup. Got a hot date tonight?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Clint replied.

  All of them stared after her head chef as he disappeared through the door that led to the corridor that in turn led into the kitchen.

  Honey broke into the stunned silence. ‘Take no notice. He’s a chef. Chefs don’t think like normal people.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Mary Jane reported back that Clint had got away OK. The only problem had occurred at the psychic fair.

  Clint had become quite taken with all that was going on, so he paid his money and had a few readings done.

  Some psychics looked a little confused at the readings they
were getting. Another put it quite bluntly and suggested Clint go for the operation if dressing in girls’ clothes was really up his street. The psychic also suggested it might happen anyway if he stuck about in Bath.

  ‘Staying in Bath may endanger your health.’

  Well, that much was true.

  It was while Honey was shopping in Waitrose, replenishing her stock of comfort food, that she spotted a face she knew.

  Karen Pinker was wearing civvies: a navy blue tracksuit, white trainers, and headband, her hair tied back in a ponytail.

  She was in the company of another girl with coffee-coloured skin and dark red hair. The girl moved with catlike grace and she was wearing dark glasses. The sunlight outside didn’t warrant it; the sky was grey and the sunbeams were fighting a losing battle.

  With a wince of envy, Honey noted Karen’s flawless complexion. At the sight of it she checked her own in the glass doors of the freezer cabinets.

  Although glass doors enclosing bags of frozen peas and sausages couldn’t complete with a proper mirror, she didn’t think she looked too bad. The treatment might have helped of course. Either that or the sticky finger marks on the glass helped smudge the true picture.

  Karen Pinker was handling a packet of reduced-fat turkey rashers. Honey made a mental note of the brand and resolved to purchase the same. Acquiring a svelte figure and flawless complexion had to be worked at.

  Honey looked into her own shopping basket. The chocolate truffles looked guiltily back. Too late to put them back without Karen seeing her sin, she grabbed a large packet of rice cakes. They’d go back as soon as she’d completed her mission. Until then they totally obscured her chocolate temptation.

  ‘Hi,’ she said breezily. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

  Caught off guard, Karen’s face drained of colour. Either the pallor was due to sudden fear or she wasn’t wearing any make-up. She exchanged a quick glance with her tall, elegant companion who was also dressed as though she’d just come from the gym.

  Honey’s eyes swept enviously over each trim frame. How many times had she promised her body that she would take it to the gym? Too many. Her body had always protested at her intentions. She took it from that that her body knew better than she did. Who was she to force the issue?