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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  Clint was that man and judging by the response of Gabriella’s husband, Clint was likely to be pulled asunder if he didn’t watch himself.

  ‘Sure, sure, sure. I’m going to let bygones be bygones and I’m going to invite him to my restaurant. We’ll have a little pizza, a little Chianti. I’ll even give him a guided tour around my establishment. And when we get to the kitchen I’ll invite him to lie on a stainless steel table while I get my sharpest knife and chop off his balls!’

  Honey saw her chance. It was sudden and speedy, but there was no point in staying. She didn’t have any balls he could chop off, but you could never tell what alternatives his sort might come up with.

  Taking both Benici and his henchman by surprise, Honey was off running, taking off from the bend in the path and leaping down the grass bank.

  It was quite a distance to fly through the air and attracted admiring looks – or at least curious looks – from people in the car park.

  ‘Drive,’ she snapped to a surprised Mary Jane.

  Mary Jane looked in her rear view mirror, something she rarely did when driving. Up until now it had purely been there for decorative purposes.

  ‘Are those gangsters?’ she asked, her voice tinged with excitement.

  ‘You bet!’

  Honey looked over her shoulder. Benici and his colleague were piling into the dark blue Bentley.

  ‘Let’s burn rubber!’ Mary Jane hit the gas.

  The G-force pressed Honey back into her seat. The colour left her face. If she’d been scared of driving with Mary Jane before, she was petrified now. They didn’t so much leave the motorway services car park, they flew low.

  ‘Are they following us?’

  Honey was staring at the road ahead. She was clinging to the seat with both hands. Looking behind was the last thing she wanted to do. She needed to keep her eyes on the road. Mary Jane might not!

  Freeing one hand, she angled the rear view mirror.

  ‘They’re on our tail.’

  Mary Jane laughed. ‘Aha! Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man!’

  This had to be it! Mary Jane was finally flipping her lid.

  They skirted the traffic island at the bottom of the incline for Severn Bridge Services and bombed up on to the motorway slip road.

  ‘It’s magic,’ laughed Mary Jane, who was obviously enjoying flying out into the traffic lane rather than prissily filtering out like sane people.

  The pink Caddy coupé flashed out into the nearside lane. At this juncture there were only two lanes. They swooped directly out into the fast lane as though there was nothing else on the road. There was; cars, trucks and road-racing motorcycles weaving in and out of the traffic.

  Mary Jane shot out there with them. They could have been at Le Mans. They could have been at Silverstone. The blaring horns and screeches of brakes said otherwise. Mary Jane was in her element.

  ‘Give them the finger!’ she shouted. ‘We’re on a mission.’

  Honey was terrified. Mary Jane was crouched over the wheel with a manic look in her eyes.

  Never had Honey seen her look like this or heard certain words mixed with her determination that they wouldn’t be caught.

  The road ahead looked scary. They were weaving in and out from one lane to another, scaring the pants off foreign drivers and homegrown ones alike.

  Honey was scared too, so scared that she chanced looking over her shoulder. Anything was better than seeing the hazards ahead.

  The Bentley wasn’t doing too badly considering it wasn’t being driven by a maniac.

  ‘They’re right behind us.’

  ‘Not for long.’

  There was something about Mary Jane’s low-pitched growl that chilled Honey to the bone. Difficult conditions jogged her brain. She’d heard that growl once before: from the evil demon from The Exorcist.

  They shot out like a cork from a bottle from the M48 on to the M4, meeting three lanes and more traffic.

  A young man with a boombox stared at them as they flew by. The sound of his dubious music thundered after them. So did the Bentley.

  The M5 turnoff was packed with traffic tailing back. A sign overhead flashed that there had been an accident.

  ‘We’ll get off at the next junction,’ shouted Mary Jane.

  The next junction – Bristol – proved as packed as the M5 exit.

  ‘Home then,’ laughed Mary Jane.

  Honey felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, being spirited away from normal surroundings.

  Not that she was really being spirited away, and Mary Jane wasn’t a bad person like the Wicked Witch of the West. It was all just so surreal.

  They were racing along with only an intrigued young guy playing loud music between them and Luigi Benici’s Bentley.

  There were arrows marked on the road ahead. The idea was that you left two arrows between each vehicle as you travelled along.

  Mary Jane did not appear to know this – either that or she was totally ignoring them.

  As they sped along she gave a running commentary on the merits of a Cadillac coupé as opposed to a Bentley.

  It was all going over Honey’s head. Her knuckles were white; her head was spinning, except in those moments when she was planning her own funeral.

  White flowers would be nice. And a cremation. She couldn’t stand the thought of being eaten by maggots. As for the hymns, well she’d always liked ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic’. The hymn kind of suited Mary Jane’s driving and the end of the road – both figuratively and literally.

  Leaving the motorway with Mary Jane at the wheel bore some similarity to an Apollo moon shot; it was breathtaking.

  Honey glanced behind.

  The grinning guy with the boom box was still behind the wheel, smiling broadly. Being young he had no problem keeping up with them. The Bentley was right behind him – which was bad news of course.

  ‘We haven’t managed to shake him off,’ Honey said.

  ‘Trust me,’ replied Mary Jane.

  They flew up the slip road. At the top was a traffic island. It was turn right for Bath. The traffic lights changed to amber, then red.

  Mary Jane shot through.

  The cars behind might have followed except for one incy-wincy thing; excited and coming from a country where car chases were the most exciting part of a film, Mary Jane did a right turn – except that she didn’t go round the island as she was supposed to. She forgot to keep to the left. She turned right into the oncoming traffic coming up from Bath.

  Cars screeched to a standstill. The guy behind them with the boom box stopped at the lights. The Bentley overtook but got T-boned by White Van Man, who was getting through at all costs and was already fazed by the old girl steaming right at him.

  Leaving cars, trucks, and vans all over the place and sounding their horns, the pink Caddy shot down the A46 towards Bath the wrong way around the island.

  ‘My!’ Mary Jane cried breathlessly, her eyes shining with a strange inner light. ‘Wasn’t that exciting!’

  Honey still had her eyes closed and her hands held tightly across her face.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  It was purely on a whim that Honey decided to call in on The Beauty Spot.

  She’d been lying in bed (her own bed), staring at the ceiling and unable to shake off the guilt she felt at the death of Karen Pinker. The girl had been friendly and although she couldn’t be entirely ruled out as embroiled in Lady Macrottie’s death, it didn’t seem likely.

  The guilt persisted. Honey had asked questions and Karen had answered. Now Karen was dead, thrown in a trench and covered in cement.

  It wasn’t fair to such an impeccably presented young woman. It wasn’t fair for anybody to be murdered, for that matter. Honey was angry and her anger was directed at The Beauty Spot.

  ‘Can you cope?’ she asked Lindsey.

  Lindsey pushed the mouse across its home on the mouse mat and gave her mother a sidelong look.

&n
bsp; ‘I was born to cope. It’s in my genes.’

  Her daughter, Lindsey, was pretty mature for her age. Sometimes it unnerved her. It made her feel immature – even irresponsible – as it did now.

  ‘That’s brilliant.’

  It was brilliant and she was probably right about the genes. However, the look on her face was a bit disconcerting. She’d seen that look before. Sometimes on Lindsey’s face, but also somewhere else.

  It didn’t come to her until she was backing the car out of her allotted space in the underground car park. She used the car park on a regular basis and had a season ticket. It was cheap but it wasn’t that great a garage. The concrete pillars supporting the roof were too close together, leaving little room for backing out or turning. She nearly ran into one when that look she’d seen on Lindsey’s face came to her. Her mother!

  Never mind, she said to herself as she headed along the crowded streets and off along the A4. She might grow out of it. Having a doppelganger of her mother was too much.

  There were a lot of cars parked outside The Beauty Spot, more than when she’d stayed there.

  She wondered why, then reminded herself it was Friday. Women who worked all week booked in for the weekend – a little respite and rejuvenation in a busy life.

  A top of the range BMW had followed her into the car park. She prided herself on taking what looked like the last available space. The BMW stood idling.

  She hightailed it into the clinic.

  Dr Roger Dexter ran his finger down one side of Serena Sarabande’s V-shaped neckline. His finger dipped into her cleavage and dawdled there, at the same time pulling her towards him.

  ‘Almost there,’ he said. ‘Once JDS have exchanged contracts, we make plans.’

  ‘And make speed,’ Serena purred. ‘Just you and me.’

  Serena Sarabande, usually cool and collected, was as flushed and excited as a teenage girl. Roger Dexter had promised her a life in the sun – just the two of them in a villa overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. They’d have a clinic, of course – staffed by qualified local staff. The clinic would cater for the rich and retired living on Spain’s Costa del Sol. They would merely manage the place – no interaction with clients. They were going to enjoy themselves.

  ‘JDS are keen. They’ll knock this place down, of course.’

  ‘Shame. It’s been here a long time.’

  Roger laughed. ‘So what do we care? Let him do what he likes and deal with the consequences.’

  ‘What do we care?’

  Serena’s smile was wide and girlish, her self-control thrown to the winds. The inner Serena was coming out. That was the effect Dr Dexter had on her. She couldn’t resist him.

  ‘But in the meantime …’ He kissed her on the forehead, swam his finger around a bit, then let her go.

  Serena’s whole body seemed to heave with regret at the removal of his digit from her cleavage. Resigned that pleasure was over and now it was down to business, she sighed and handed him the file.

  ‘Our last case. I think she’s good for the money. Good for her age, too. She’s shortly attending a friend’s wedding and wants a quick job for a fair price. I haven’t mentioned Venezuela. I’ll leave that to you.’

  He nodded affably, his eyes on the contents of the file he held in his hands. His smile was calculating.

  ‘A little more cash in the bank wouldn’t come amiss.’

  ‘You reckon she’s a dead cert for this?’

  Serena nodded. ‘A bit older than usual, but as long as her heart’s strong, there shouldn’t be any problem.’

  Dr Dexter glanced up at her. ‘I hope not. We don’t want any more problems.’

  ‘She’s the sort that takes care of herself. Impeccably turned out. A bit of a clothes horse in fact. And she has money. That much is obvious.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Gloria Cross,’ he said addressing the file. ‘Let’s see how you respond to the prospect of two weeks in Venezuela – at a very attractive fee.’

  Honey’s mother had enjoyed the facial massage, the pedicure, the manicure, and the Indian head massage.

  Enid had recommended the clinic and Gloria had gone along there mainly because she couldn’t get in at short notice at her usual place.

  This will suffice, she’d said to herself. And it was fine – as far as it went. What she couldn’t get to grips with was the comments they’d made about her face. She took great care of her face and yet they’d mentioned plastic surgery.

  She was not amused that they considered she needed something like that, and very shortly they would get a piece of her mind.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  There was a new receptionist. She was just as well turned out as Karen had been and just as attentive. The smile was immediate and as crisp as her snow white uniform.

  ‘Welcome to The Beauty Spot. What can we do for you today?’

  Honey was just about to state her business when she felt a slight draught and knew somebody else had entered.

  He was tall and spoke over Honey’s head, literally jumping the queue – such as it was.

  ‘Sorry to push in, love,’ he said to Honey. ‘I’d like to speak to Dexter. Now.’

  ‘I don’t think –’

  The man stretched one beefy arm across the dividing counter, picked up the telephone receiver, and handed it to her.

  ‘Do us a favour, love. Tell him that John Sheer is here of JDS Developments. If he wants completion on time, he’ll see me.’

  Honey was all ears. Completion. Completion of what?

  John Sheer looked at Honey. ‘Sorry, love. Important business.’

  While the receptionist did as directed, Honey studied the new arrival, surmising that he was the driver of the BMW that couldn’t find a parking space.

  He was big and beefy. At some time he must have done physical labour, judging by the size of his muscles. He now oozed success. Labourer turned developer was written all over him.

  He was wearing smart casual; a lemon cashmere sweater, pale grey chinos, and loafers. A bit overweight and fast approaching fifty, he looked as though he were using clothes and being well turned out to camouflage his problem with gym membership.

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to say “I take it you’re not here for a mudpack or a little liposuction”,’ said Honey.

  ‘No. Though I could do with the latter,’ he said with a grin, his hand patting his belly which she sensed he was trying to hold in.

  He looked her up and down. ‘So what are you doing here? A little beauty treatment? Certainly not surgery. You don’t need it.’

  She found herself responding to his flattery, flushing a little while allowing her ego to blossom.

  However, he’d said something about completion.

  ‘So you’re not a surgeon or a doctor?’

  He guffawed. ‘Not bloody likely. I used to be just a builder but now I’m a builder and developer. I built the houses around this place.’ He leaned closer, whispering so the receptionist wouldn’t hear. ‘I’ll let you into a little secret. I’m about to buy this place and turn it into flats. If you want one I’ll do it at a knockdown price.’

  ‘Is that so? Any idea what the price is likely to be?’

  ‘Dinner?’

  Well that was a foregone conclusion. She had to admire his cheek and couldn’t help smiling. Beneath it all her mind was ticking like a clock. He was going to turn this lovely old place into flats. It was the first she’d heard of it. The fact that he’d built all the houses round about plus those still being built was also interesting.

  ‘Finding the body must have come as a bit of a shock.’

  His amiable smile fell from his face.

  ‘The worst thing of the lot.’

  Honey frowned.

  ‘We’ve had problems on the site ever since the day we laid the first foundations. Machinery vandalized, windows smashed. Somebody didn’t want us to build and didn’t want people to move in.’

  ‘The girl that was murdered used to work here.’


  He nodded and looked genuinely saddened. ‘I didn’t know Karen well, but well enough – you know – in passing. Not my type. Too perfect.’ He frowned. ‘I like natural women.’

  Judging by the sudden way his eyes swept over her, loitering in the more intimate places, he meant what he said.

  The receptionist interrupted to say that Dr Dexter was with a client but would be with Mr Sheer shortly.

  Honey told her that she would see the doctor as soon as he was finished with Mr Sheer. In the meantime she’d grab a coffee from the refreshment station in the next room.

  John Sheer said he would do the same and followed her through.

  Things had gone exactly as planned. John Sheer had known Karen Pinker in passing. He was also responsible for developing the site. Instinct was gnawing at her insides. He had to know something interesting. In fact she knew he could tell her something interesting.

  The bit about natural beauty had thrown her. Karen Pinker – or Karen Perfect, as Honey herself had termed her – had been just that. Too perfect.

  ‘So Karen wasn’t a natural beauty,’ she said after taking a sip of coffee.

  John Sheer did the same, shaking his head. ‘Far from it. She was manufactured at the clinic’s expense.’

  Honey looked at him. His eyes twinkled as he returned her look and in that moment she had him worked out. He was sure of himself, still pulling the birds despite his advancing years and expanding waistline.

  ‘How do you know that if Karen wasn’t your type?’

  ‘I had a little fling with a friend of hers. She told me that Karen had had a lot of work done at the clinic’s expense. Dexter paid. He wanted someone up front as a kind of advert of what was achievable. Other women felt frumpy and inferior once they’d taken a look at Karen. It made them want to be what she was.’

  Remembering she’d felt exactly like that, Honey chewed at her bottom lip before warning herself that it would get sore and unsightly.

  ‘Anyway,’ Sheer went on. ‘I didn’t think old Roger dug too deeply in his pockets. She had the work done in Venezuela. Apparently it’s cheaper there.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Apparently.’