‘I take it she didn’t care much for your sleeping arrangements.’
Honey managed a smile. ‘I like them.’
‘But she doesn’t.’
‘She’s invited me round tomorrow for tea. I think she intends giving me a good talking to about sharing a bed with unsuitable men.’
She couldn’t help the smile as she bent down to put the phone back into her bag, her backside turned towards him.
When she turned round, Doherty’s grin was laced with something more than humour.
‘So! Will you be Mummy’s best little girl and take on board all that she says?’
Honey climbed back into bed, crawling up over his body which was still hidden beneath the bedclothes.
Her hair fell over their faces as she kissed him.
‘I think I’ve grown out of being Mummy’s good little girl. I kind of like being Steve Doherty’s naughty little girl.’
He beamed. ‘You do. Well, Honey Driver, that suits me very well. Very well indeed.’
Chapter Twenty-two
Her mother had a very nice apartment in the centre of town, which meant she could swan around to her heart’s content without having to drive. She preferred to be chauffeured around and when there wasn’t anyone to chauffeur her, she took a taxi. Simple.
Honey walked there. Mary Jane had offered to give her a lift and although it would have been interesting to hear more about her night at the psychic fair with Clint in high heels, she resisted. Having to cope with her mother’s matchmaking and Mary Jane’s driving was just too much to handle in one day.
Matchmaking was definitely what her mother was up to. She’d said four o’clock and it was now six. Honey had deliberately come late. Whoever her mother thought to fix her up with had probably got tired of waiting and gone home by now. But nothing was definite. She needed to be on her toes.
She could tell the moment she walked into her mother’s living room with its French chateau curtains and silk cushions that her ruse appeared to have worked.
‘Hannah! You will always miss the best opportunities. You disappoint me.’
Mumbling her apologies did nothing to alleviate her mother’s tight jawline. All was explained through gnashing teeth. The would-be suitor had left – not for home but for a game of golf with his friends from work. Apparently he was a civil servant and had been for over twenty years, working at the same desk in the same office.
‘So rare nowadays for a man to have a job for life,’ her mother exclaimed.
Behind her mother’s back, Honey raised her eyes to heaven and thanked whoever happened to be her guardian angel. It had been a close-run thing. Tea time would have been torture, having to make conversation with someone whose life batted between a desk and a golf course.
Gloria Cross wore a lipstick that matched her outfit. Her hair was beautifully shiny and her make-up was impeccable. Her jewellery was Christian Dior and very collectable. For a seventy-odd-year-old she shone; even if she’d been younger she would still have outclassed her daughter. But Honey was used to it, just as she was used to the petulant pink lips and the anger in her mother’s eyes.
‘I laid this on specially.’
Honey resigned herself to the fact that her mother would take days to get over this. Everything in the room was so perfect. Even the air seemed quite refined. The furniture was polished, the silk cushions arranged on the diagonal so that each point faced in the same direction as the cushion next to it. The best china had been laid out and Gloria Cross looked a dream in pale green chiffon with a cropped silk jacket.
Just in case said man had still been there, Honey had gone out of her way to look unappealing. She’d stuck to a pair of scuffed jeans, a black sweater, and a pop art waistcoat with ‘Don’t you think I’m sexy’ printed across the back and embellished in sequins. High fashion it was not. She’d also scraped her hair back into an elastic band at the nape of her neck. Elastic band and printed slogan contradicted each other in that elastic bands had never been sexy. She supposed it depended on what you did with them, but she wasn’t kinky like that.
‘You’re looking wonderful, Mother. It’s a wonder he didn’t ask you out, never mind your dull, dowdy daughter.’
Her mother didn’t rise to the flattery. She was in severe sulking mode. The crockery and tray of clotted cream and strawberry jam were being bundled on to a tray heading for the kitchen.
Her mother’s mouth was screwed up into a mean little moue and her narrowed eyes glittered with fury.
‘Sorry. I got held up,’ said Honey.
The guilt caught up with her. She made an attempt to make amends. ‘Don’t I even get a cup of tea and a cream scone?’
Slamming the tray down in the kitchen, Gloria Cross turned to face her.
‘Hannah! I do my best for you. I only do what I feel is in your best interests. Malcolm Piper would have been the ideal man for you, a kind, honest, hardworking man who would have looked after you. If you’d played your cards right you could have been wife number four …’
‘He’s had three already?’
Her mother was dismissive. ‘Unfortunate circumstances.’
‘They died?’
‘Drowned.’
Honey gulped. ‘All of them?’
‘It was unfortunate, but yes. All of them drowned.’
‘It wouldn’t have been in a bath by any chance?’
Her mother looked at her as though she’d taken leave of her senses. ‘Of course not. One had dizzy spells. She fell into a puddle. The other got cramps while swimming in the sea. I think the third fell into a canal.’
‘Great. If I get involved with him I’ll remember to stay away from water.’
‘You’re being facetious.’
‘No. I have a strong survival instinct.’ She frowned. ‘Were the police involved in any of the deaths?’
‘Of course not! He was just unfortunate.’
The afternoon had soured so there was no point lingering. Throwing her bag over her shoulder and stripping the elastic band from her hair, she strolled back through the city, feeling a little lighter in some respects and a little guilty in others. Her mother really did have her best interests at heart but couldn’t bear to think that she had her own opinions – and her own tastes in men.
Although it was beginning to rain, she didn’t mind that much. Her slip-on shoes were getting wet because she was purposely walking through puddles, but she really didn’t mind.
Hard it might be, but running her own business, her own hotel in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, was very satisfying. OK, she wasn’t making big bucks, but that didn’t matter. She was independent and that did matter.
The sound of a car horn made her jump. A car was sliding into the kerb beside her. She was quite used to people she knew pulling up and offering her a lift.
With a ready smile, she turned round to see who it was. She didn’t recognize the car. Neither did she register the passenger or the driver.
The passenger window slid silently open.
‘Would you like a lift?’
His teeth sizzled with whiteness, his features finely chiselled. She tried to think whether she had seen either him or the car before. It just didn’t register. The car was a blue Bentley. She definitely did not know that many people with a Bentley. Only Casper, she thought. I’m sure he’s got one.
The man behind the wheel leaned across. ‘I’m sure I’m going your way.’
She knew him! She definitely knew him. But from where? It occurred to her that this might be the man her mother had been trying to fix her up with. She should be safe enough if that was the case and might have got in if a pink Cadillac coupé hadn’t driven in behind the Bentley.
Mary Jane was waving to her.
The rain got heavier.
She straightened. ‘My friend’s here,’ she said to the man in the Bentley. Before he could make comment she was sliding on to the white leather passenger seat of Mary Jane’s car.
The first thing
she did after fastening the seat belt was to say a silent prayer to the god of road traffic accidents. Mary Jane was a kind friend but had to be the lousiest driver in Bath.
‘Who was that guy?’ asked Mary Jane.
‘He might be a suitor for my hand in marriage.’
‘Really? He looked a dish!’
Mary Jane was all feverish interest, her old eyes shining, perhaps with a few memories of her own.
‘Did he?’
‘He did too. My instincts tell me he was Italian.’
Honey viewed her with surprise. ‘My, I didn’t know psychics could pinpoint nationality.’
‘Oh, nothing to do with that. It was the plates. They were Italian. Sicilian more likely. Syracuse, I think.’
Honey slid down into the seat, her eyes shifting nervously from side to side. The Bentley hadn’t come along by chance. It had probably followed her to her mother’s house, stopped outside, and waited for her to come out.
‘Did he offer you a lift?’
‘Yes.’
‘It could have been fun.’
‘I don’t think so, Mary Jane. I think it was one of the guys who want to cut off Clint’s assets.’
The car swerved. ‘Oh, dear. Do you think he might have hurt you?’
Honey swallowed and closed her eyes. She could have answered yes, he might have hurt her. On the other hand a worrying answer might make Mary Jane swerve again – which could be just as dangerous and far more immediate.
Chapter Twenty-three
‘So, David Carpenter was not David Carpenter. He was this guy Mandril.’
‘Yes.’ Doherty was curt. He wasn’t looking at her, he wasn’t being forthcoming. The obvious conclusion was that he had no wish to be reminded of work. ‘The wine looks good.’
They were at the Assembly Rooms, attending the wine tasting for which Casper had borrowed the Victorian table centrepiece.
Hoteliers and restaurateurs had travelled into the city from miles around, lured by the promise of free booze and an evening away from grumbling guests and bolshie staff.
The company doing the honours this evening represented the very best South Australia’s wine growers had to offer. Realizing they were catering to the professionals, the people behind the bar were pouring generous measures which were quaffed, tasted, and swallowed. Nobody suggested they spit out between each measure, besides which no receptacles had been provided in which to spit. Obviously the merchants and wine growers knew their market well. The professionals of the hospitality trade could handle their drink.
Honey definitely detected a holiday atmosphere, or at least that of a good night out. She’d dressed accordingly and thought she looked particularly fetching in a little black dress. Doherty was unchanged in fashion savvy, sticking firmly to smart casual. He didn’t do tux and ties. ‘Not good for my street cred, Hon,’ he’d said sagely.
Tarts and toffs had frequented the Assembly Rooms from the moment it was built, back when men wore britches and women swooned at the thought of their assets.
Overhead the chandeliers sparkled from high ceilings of elaborate plasterwork. The room was bright with light and hummed with conversation.
A circlet of tables had been set up in the centre of the room, surrounding a brace of barmen. Glasses and glossy bottles of amber and blood-red wine sat on silver trays, which in turn sat on sparkling white cloths.
Forming a backdrop to the barmen was a kind of tiered wedding cake arrangement formed by placing one small round table on top of a larger one. Both were covered in crisp white linen. At the very summit, instead of a bride and groom, perched Honey’s very own gleaming glass epergne, a large affair that she’d bought from the local auction room.
Perched was a worrying word. It certainly worried her.
‘I paid five hundred pounds for that. I hope Casper’s got it insured,’ she murmured.
Doherty didn’t appear to hear what she said. He was too busy getting into the spirit of the occasion.
‘Was that a Shiraz I had just now? Can I have another?’
Honey nodded at the waiter. ‘Give him another of whatever it was he had just now.’
The waiter was sniffy. ‘It’s only one tasting per person from each vintage.’
She asked the obvious question. ‘Will it make a difference if I buy a case?’
The obvious answer came back. ‘OK.’
The waiter poured. Doherty swirled, sniffed, and finally sipped his second glass of Shiraz.
‘Very nice.’
Honey cradled her glass while fixing her eyes on him. She detected some reluctance to discuss the subject of David Carpenter further and she didn’t really know why – which made her all the more determined.
‘So why was Mandril at my place?’
‘This is very nice,’ he said, slurping before swilling the wine around his mouth.
‘You’re being evasive.’
He laughed, sipped, and shook his head all at the same time.
Honey wasn’t fooled. There was something he didn’t want to tell her. A sudden flash of worst-case scenario caused her to take a pot shot at what it might be.
‘He was there to kill me? My God! That’s what he was there for!’
‘No.’
He said it in a way that she didn’t quite believe. Doherty was a policeman, man being the optimum word. He knew how to lie.
He didn’t meet her eyes but appeared to be surveying the gathered throng, smiling stupidly at people he didn’t even know.
‘They’ll think you’re a gatecrasher.’
‘What?’
‘Grinning at people like that.’
‘Just being friendly.’
‘Was Mandril just being friendly? Had he come round to say, “Howdy, I’m a dangerous man and I want to know you better”?’
‘Don’t be silly. Mandril isn’t – wasn’t – the sort to do something for no reason – or for nothing.’
‘Do you want to elaborate on that?’
Tipping his head back, Doherty studied the big bright chandeliers with one eye closed.
Honey knew that look. She might get the truth or there again she might not. Doherty always took on that kind of look when he was weighing up the odds. It was up to her to push it.
‘OK,’ she said, jumping in at the deep end. ‘Let me put my psychic hat on.’
Glass clutched in one hand, she fanned her fingers around the sides of her head and closed her eyes.
He looked at her with a mix of surprise and wry amusement. ‘Come on, Honey. You’re joking. Right?’
She made a funny humming noise that seemed appropriate to what she was doing.
Doherty was taken in. ‘Can you really do psychic?’
He sounded sceptical. Well, she could go along with that. Everyone had a right to their own beliefs.
‘Silence. I’m going into mind-reading mode. I need to bring all my faculties to bear.’
‘Honey, you’re freaking me out. I don’t believe you can do this. And since when?’
‘Mary Jane taught me. She reckons I’m a natural sensitive.’
That clinched it. He snorted with laughter.
‘You?’
‘Why not me?’
The laughter continued to rumble. ‘Look, I’ve had enough psychics march into the station offering me their services to know the score. They all say that it’s a gift – you’ve either got it or you haven’t. And I don’t think you have,’ he said, kissing her on the forehead while tickling her ear with his pinky.
He was being evasive about Mandril and it was winding her up.
‘The mind can be trained,’ she stated firmly.
He smirked. ‘Go on then. Tell me what I’m thinking.’
‘OK.’
She made a serious face, her eyes still closed.
‘Right. The spirits are coming through. I’m getting messages here, but I really don’t need them. I’m so in tune with the vibes I’m getting a reading all by myself.’
‘Go on then. Tell
me.’
‘Right. Right! It’s coming through now. You, Steve Doherty, are thinking that we might round off the evening with a nice meal at your place and be safely tucked up in bed by the witching hour.’
‘Am I that predictable?’
‘Yep.’
‘I’ll make everything up to you. I promise.’
Honey’s eyes flashed open. ‘Aha! So you’ve done something for which you need to make amends.’
He eyed her quizzically, that ‘I think I’ve just been rumbled’ look on his face.
She fixed him with a piercing glare. ‘You are now going to tell me something that I won’t like. True?’
‘Ah!’
She snatched his wine glass away. ‘Cough up, buster. Was Mandril at my place looking for Clint or not?’
He sniffed. ‘I can get another glass. I’ll try the white.’
Honey formed a barrier, which basically meant nuzzling tight up against him. Even a glass of Chardonnay wouldn’t tempt him to forego that experience.
‘Look into my eyes.’
He looked.
She saw the wavering before he finally broke.
‘Mandril does – sorry – did private detective work and he wasn’t looking for Clint. We’ve been through his case notes. He was working for the beauty clinic.’
‘The Beauty Spot?’
‘That’s who was paying him. I think he was there asking questions about you because you had been asking questions at the clinic and they were suspicious.’
‘My! How badly did I rattle their cage?’’
She was shocked. Her impression had been that she hadn’t found out very much at all, now it appeared as though she might have. But what? Surely not the fact that Dr Dexter and Serena Sarabande were having an affair? No. Something else had been going on there and she’d stumbled on it without knowing she had. But what?
She asked Doherty if he suspected something really serious was going down there.
‘Could be. We’re not sure. Not yet, but we’re reopening the case of the woman with the lesions – Miss Pansy Porter. The fire department record makes interesting reading. Flour is combustible. Did you know that? That was how the Great Fire of London started in Pudding Lane.’
‘So I hear.’
Murder By Mudpack: A Honey Driver Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries) Page 12