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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘She must be freezing.’ Doherty was alarmed.

  ‘Of course she’s not,’ said Clint. ‘She’s a wood nymph.’

  There was no answer to that and no real explanation as to why being a wood nymph made you impervious to the cold. It was only spring – an English spring. Summer was two months off and there was no guarantee the sun was going to shine and the temperature reach the seasonal average. Even June could be a bit nippy around the extremities.

  Herbal tea was offered in heavy mugs that seemed, judging by the names printed on the sides, mostly to be souvenirs from seaside resorts. Brighton. Blackpool. St Ives.

  The steaming brew gave off a perfumed odour vaguely reminiscent of dusty nettles and crushed rosehips.

  Seeing as they’d had nothing since this morning, they accepted, though Doherty did look a bit doubtful.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Honey after taking a sip. Healthy brews were not really her thing.

  Doherty took one sip and looked as though he were about to throw up. ‘Christ! What’s this made from?’

  Clint was his usual exuberant self. ‘I made it myself from fresh dandelions,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Not nettles?’ Honey knew nothing of natural brews but nettles seemed the usual ingredient of most of them.

  ‘No. Dandelions. It’s a diuretic.’

  Doherty flashed Honey a questioning look.

  She smiled wickedly. ‘It makes you pass water a lot.’

  Doherty tipped the contents of his mug on to the grass. ‘I’ll pass. I’ve got to drive back to Bath.’

  Honey had expected to see Clint not exactly cowering in a corner, but not far from one. He seemed totally unfazed by the fact that he was number one on a Mafia hit list. She had no evidence to confirm that Luigi was Mafia, but at mention of Benici and Mafia in the same breath, Doherty had adopted an odd, noncommittal expression.

  First things first. Ask him about inebriates likely to be dossing round and about The Beauty Spot.

  Clint frowned when she asked the question. ‘I don’t know everybody who lives in Cardboard County,’ he said. He sounded offended.

  Honey apologized. ‘I should have known better.’

  ‘It’s a long time since I was of no fixed abode,’ Clint stated. ‘I have an address.’

  She could have said, one you dare not be seen in at present. But she didn’t. There was still a glimmer of hope.

  ‘So who do you suggest I ask? Is there anyone who might know?’

  He jerked his chin. ‘Could be.’

  Honey waited. Clint eyed her, looked at Doherty with narrowed eyes and then looked back at her.

  ‘I’ll write it down for you. He don’t like coppers.’

  Doherty threw Honey one of his long-suffering looks.

  Clint fetched a supermarket receipt out of one pocket and a pencil from another. Honey took the scribbled note once Clint had folded it in four, still harbouring a squinty-eyed look every time his eyes travelled Doherty’s way.

  Honey thanked him. One job was out of the way, but there was still one to go.

  The time was ripe to suggest Clint might want to try and make peace with Luigi, or at least come back to Bath and keep low.

  He shook his head vehemently at the suggestion.

  ‘Man, are you kidding?’

  ‘Mr Benici might see sense. After all, he hasn’t thrown his wife out or killed her. She’s still the woman he married. A woman’s a woman for all that,’ stated Mary Jane as though she were repeating some sacred mantra.

  ‘Except that she’s pregnant.’ Doherty grinned.

  Clint grimaced.

  Unfazed, Doherty continued. ‘And bearing in mind that she’s another man’s wife, your days as a fully-fledged male are numbered.’

  The four of them fell to silence, all staring at the ground as though an answer might pop up at any minute.

  Honey was in thought mode. She needed her washer-up and basically, deep down, he was a good sort who had been born out of his time. He should have been adult – or almost adult – around the Summer of Love. He believed in free love. He expected everyone else to feel the same.

  ‘What we need is confirmation that the baby is not Clint’s – without resorting to DNA evidence,’ said Honey.

  ‘Too bloody right!’ Clint looked shifty about ending up on the police DNA database. He didn’t like being on police databases full stop. The DNA one was way beyond full stop.

  ‘It’s all about rumour and reputation,’ Honey stated, sure of her ground, sure she knew men and their egos that well.

  Doherty shook his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  Honey clarified. ‘What I’m saying is that we need to provide evidence that Clint can’t possibly be the father.’

  Doherty looked unconvinced. ‘Isn’t that the same thing?’

  ‘You’re not listening to what I’m saying.’ Honey folded her arms and shook her head. What she intended saying next wasn’t going to go down too well; Clint was a man and men were proud of their fertility almost as much as their virility.

  ‘We need to prove that it’s impossible for Clint to be the father.’

  Doherty still wasn’t getting it. ‘Sorry to have to say this, Clint, old buddy, but you were caught with your pants down – literally!’

  Clint gave his version of the soft shoe shuffle – his head tipping from side to side as though his neck had suddenly rubberized. To his credit he didn’t blush.

  ‘Yeah. You’re right there. I’d put my pants over a chair but got into them damned quick when Benici came hammering at the door. Flew out of the bloody window, in fact!’ He shook his head. ‘The guy should be more cool. He’ll give himself a heart attack going on like that.’

  ‘That’s nothing to what he’s likely to give you,’ muttered Doherty.

  Honey understood Clint. His view of the world was that you should be free to do anything you wanted to do providing it didn’t hurt anyone else. Regardless of the fact that he’d been born too late, he had a Summer of Love view of the world. Unfortunately for him, Luigi Benici didn’t share his view.

  ‘Do you have any children, Clint?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not that I know of.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘And I ain’t married. I’m gonna stay single and bring all me kids up the same way.’

  At any other time the joke might have raised a smile. But Clint’s physical health could be at risk here and it wasn’t funny. Honey pointed it out to him, plus the very hurtful comment, ‘So you might be firing blanks.’

  Clint looked as though she’d landed him a physical punch rather than a verbal one.

  ‘What? I’m not sure that I like that.’

  ‘If we could prove that you are not the father … merely by saying that despite the fact you’ve had numerous liaisons, you have never fathered a child … Benici might listen. Italians are notoriously macho; they all have to be stallions. How long have the Benicis been married?’

  Clint shrugged. ‘A few years.’

  Doherty groaned and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘How are you going to do this?’

  ‘Luigi Benici is bound to try and pick me up again. This time I’ll make sure he knows that Clint fires duds. OK?’

  Clint looked horrified. ‘Hey, just a minute! What about my reputation?’

  Doherty shook his head and grinned. ‘Ah, yes. Your reputation. Comments about big weapons and firing blanks are going to come pretty thick and fast.’

  Clint glared. He’d never been buddies with the police and wasn’t about to start now.

  Doherty had got over the shock of the fat woman and her having a close relationship with trees. Clint’s virility being brought into question was good for a laugh. Any time he bumped into him in future he’d grin wryly; the joke was on Clint.

  Mary Jane’s eyes were turned heavenward. A long thin finger was poised on her cheek.

  ‘Do you know that eunuchs were much prized in the harems of the Sultan of Constantinople? By the women I mean. Because there were so many of them
they didn’t see the Sultan’s bed too often – perhaps once a year. So the eunuchs came in handy. Now how did they put it? “They enjoyed the flower of passion but not the fruit.” Yeah! That’s what they said.’

  Clint blinked, his tight expression loosening as the implications of what she’d said hit him hard between the eyes – and in his pants.

  ‘Bloody hell! I could have a field day.’

  Honey rolled her eyes. Obviously she hadn’t known men well enough. She’d forgotten the cardinal rule. Go for the positive aspect. She could almost imagine him putting the word around the city of Bath.

  Want sex without risk? Rodney (Clint) Eastwood is your man!

  Chapter Thirty-six

  A call came through on Doherty’s cell phone just as they were about to leave.

  He rendered Honey his apologies.

  ‘Sorry, doll. Duty calls.’

  ‘Anywhere interesting?’

  ‘The morgue.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Honey didn’t like morgues – or at least the thought of them, since she’d never entered one. However, she’d weighed up the alternatives: drive to the morgue with Doherty or home with Mary Jane. The morgue was likely to make her feel queasy, but then so was Mary Jane’s driving.

  Doherty cupped her elbow and put some distance between the two of them and Mary Jane and Clint. Clint was showing Mary Jane some seedlings that were just sprouting.

  Doherty slipped his hand up the front of Honey’s T-shirt, hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans, and tugged her close.

  She pretended to be offended. ‘You’re taking liberties!’

  ‘I’m making up for lost time.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since tonight. My bed will be empty. Personal matters.’

  ‘Your daughter.’ The fact that he hadn’t told her he had a daughter still rankled, but she’d put it to one side. He must have had his reasons.

  He sighed. ‘I promised her mother I’d pick her up and take her home.’

  ‘To your wife.’

  ‘My ex-wife.’

  He said it vehemently, as though the reference left a bitter taste on his tongue. She hoped it did. To leave a sweet taste would mean he was still sweet on her. Wouldn’t it?

  ‘OK. So I take my life in my hands and drive home with Mary Jane.’

  ‘You’ve drawn the short straw, babe.’

  Once he’d removed his hand from her waistband, he chucked her under her chin.

  ‘Keep it warm for me, babe.’

  Nothing could make her enthusiastic about driving home with Mary Jane. She had no choice.

  ‘It’s such a long time since we had a really good chat,’ Mary Jane was saying while guiding Honey gently but firmly towards the pink Cadillac coupé that she’d had specially shipped over from the States. ‘You and I have been passing like ships in the night, as they say. Of course I can understand it, what with you having a love affair with that rascally policeman, so let’s take this as an opportunity to catch up on things, shall we?’

  While Mary Jane was doing her all-girls-together thing, Doherty had gone, his car bouncing off down the drive looking more like a child’s toy car than a real sporty sort with all the gizmos.

  Men liked gizmos, Honey thought to herself as Mary Jane guided her into the front passenger seat.

  Honey belted up.

  ‘No need to put the safety belt on just yet,’ said Mary Jane in her usual blasé manner.

  ‘Better to be safe than sorry.’

  You bet it was. Mary Jane was far from being the world’s best driver. She’d learned to drive on the right hand side of the road in the United States and no amount of time would ever entirely erase that notion. The British Isles drove on the left. Mary Jane seemed to have it in her head that it was time they changed to the right way – the right hand side.

  Mary Jane wittered on about Sir Cedric most of the way home. Sir Cedric was the resident ghost who had haunted the old hotel for centuries. Supposedly her long-dead ancestor, he lived in the corner closet in Mary Jane’s room – if lived was quite the right word.

  It wasn’t until they’d crossed one of the two bridges spanning the Severn that Honey managed to get a word in.

  ‘My mother’s going to a wedding.’

  ‘That’s right. Have you seen her costume?’

  ‘No. Have you?’ The word ‘costume’ was a little off-key. Outfit, thought Honey. The word should be outfit.

  ‘Yes, indeedy! It’s brilliant. I told Sir Cedric about it. He remembers that kind of thing well, of course …’

  ‘Does he?’

  Honey was getting a bad case of the jitters. The word costume was dancing around in her head.

  ‘She went for the empire line. It was either that or the drapes of a Roman lady. Your mother thought it would make her look too matronly.’

  Honey frowned. ‘Is this a fancy dress party or a wedding?’

  ‘A themed wedding,’ Mary Jane announced at the same time as cutting up an articulated truck with Polish numberplates. ‘Regency and Roman. Choose which you like.’

  Honey didn’t exactly feel guilty that she hadn’t been privy to this information, merely surprised. Her mother had asked her to come round and run her eye over her wedding outfit, but she hadn’t got around to it. A vision of the wedding guests popped into her mind. Ancient Romans. Historical Regency.

  Driving with Mary Jane meant that you were stiff most of the time because your nerves were always on edge. You also squeezed your eyes closed a lot. Doing all this was very tiring.

  ‘How about we take the next exit and pop into the services for a coffee?’

  Drinking overpriced coffee from cardboard cups in plastic surroundings was hardly Honey’s idea of epicurean delight, but Mary Jane appeared to be having a race with any eight-wheeler that got in her way. She just had to overtake even when they were keeping up a good speed. The trouble was she kept forgetting herself and overtaking on the left instead of the right. The left hand lane was actually the hard shoulder, the place where vehicles experiencing a sudden puncture or mechanical breakdown pulled over. So far they’d avoided two such vehicles and survived to tell the tale. The third, Honey decided, they might not be so lucky.

  As predicted the coffee was grim. The ladies’ cloakroom was welcome. So was a packet of aspirin from the on-site shop.

  Mary Jane had gone on back to the car. Honey had purchased a bottle of water besides her aspirin. She was never tense while driving. She wasn’t even tense while driving with Doherty or anyone else. It was just Mary Jane. There should be a health warning on Mary Jane’s driving, she decided as she made her way out of the concourse.

  A little fresh air would help the medicine go down. She took a right. An area of grass fringed the path dividing the building from a metal guardrail overlooking the river.

  A salty breeze was blowing. Leaning on the guardrail, she took deep breaths.

  It felt good – though not for long.

  She was jerked off her feet and spun round. She found herself facing Luigi Benici. He didn’t look pleased. He wasn’t exactly handsome, though not ugly either. Just angry. The tension had been diminishing. Now it did a U-turn. Benici was having an adverse effect on it. The tension was coming back.

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  Honey tried humour. ‘Have you been to Wales, Mr Benici? Thinking of joining a choir, are you?’

  ‘No. I have not. Lucky I came in here to relieve myself. We can resume our little discussion. Now. Where is Eastwood?’

  She was tempted to say in Hollywood. After all, that was where the movie idol – Rodney’s namesake – lived, didn’t he? Judging by Benici’s expression it might not go down well, so she held it down.

  Despite the big maulers holding her, she managed a casual shrug.

  ‘How would I know?’

  He pointed a finger. The tip of it jabbed between her eyes.

  ‘Don’t lie to me. I saw him go in your place, but I didn’t see h
im come out. Now tell me – before I let Bruno here have some fun with you – where is Eastwood?’

  It crossed her mind that Bruno’s idea of fun wouldn’t fall in line with her own. Whatever he enjoyed she would not.

  Now was the time to put her plan into action – if she could. It was difficult when you were being held in a Boston Crab, a beefy arm heavy across the jugular.

  She croaked what she had to say.

  ‘I hope you’ve forgiven your wife, Mr Benici. Especially now you’re about to be parents …’

  It was difficult to breathe, let alone speak, but somehow she managed it despite the arm around her throat.

  ‘It’s his! She told me it’s his!’

  ‘Not … possible … Clint … has … had …’ She paused. This was ridiculous. She hit the restraining arm and at the same time kicked at his shin.

  ‘Let me breathe!’ she shouted at the top of her lungs.

  The guy holding her was taken off guard.

  ‘So breathe,’ said Benici. ‘Now talk.’

  He nodded at the guy holding her. His grip loosened.

  ‘As I was saying, Clint – sorry, Rodney – has a bit of a reputation with the ladies. He’s put it about something chronic. And that’s all he’s done. No offspring have ever resulted from one of his nights of passion. The baby your wife is expecting cannot be his. In which case, it can only be yours.’

  Benici’s cheeks moved in and out as he chewed at what she’d said.

  Honey wondered at how his wife was faring. After all, he was hardly the forgiving type.

  ‘Your wife’s still the woman she was. Her affair is finished. She’s still your wife and she’s expecting your baby.’

  She studied his face, hoping to see a softening of expression but not really seeing anything at all except a clenched jaw and small, narrowed eyes with dark brown centres.

  ‘I’ll kill him anyway.’

  This was not going as she’d planned. She’d planned for him to be enlightened enough to see the sense of it. Luigi Benici was not that kind of man. What did it say in the wedding service? Those who God have joined together, let no man put asunder.