Death of a Diva: A Honey Driver Murder Mystery (Honey Driver Mysteries Book 9)

by Jean G. Goodhind

  He had settled himself on the big brown sofa in the dining room. The sofa was used by guests enjoying an aperitif before going to their table. Doherty was lying full stretch, his elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, his hand supporting his head.

  ‘You look as though you’ve just got out of bed,’ she said to him.

  ‘Care to go back upstairs and tidy me up?’ This was delivered with a suggestive arching of eyebrows.

  Before she had a chance to respond, he was on his feet, his lips sucking at hers while reaching behind her for a piece of buttered toast.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said once he’d set her to one side and reached for more food. The paying guests had already dined, but there was plenty left. Serve plenty of food, get no complaints. That was Honey’s number one mantra for running a successful hotel.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘Not healthy.’

  Doherty sighed. ‘Too much work, not enough time. I’ve been trying to squeeze in more training.’

  ‘How’s the back?’

  A grin slowly creased his face. ‘Fine, though a little massage wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘Eat your porridge.’

  Only the two of them in the dining room, they pulled chairs up to the breakfast bar, helping themselves to what was left. The smell of grilled bacon overwhelmed everything else. The sausages were delicious, the tomatoes were squashed and the fried bread had dried out, but still tasted good.

  ‘So this piece of pink material; was it an Alice band or a chiffon scarf.’

  ‘Not sure. I need to check. Is it significant?’ asked Doherty.

  Honey nodded. ‘She was wearing a pink Alice band and a chiffon scarf when I saw her the other night at the baths. I’m not sure whether she was wearing them when she left, but she was certainly wearing them while she was there.’

  ‘That argument you overheard. Are you sure you didn’t recognise the voice of the woman who threatened to kill her?’

  Honey shook her head. ‘She talked about taking over Arabella’s career. That’s got to be a lead, don’t you think?’

  ‘Very likely. We’ve made enquiries of her agent and the people who produced the last programme she presented. The former shouted abuse. The second didn’t really throw any light on her prospects except to say they’d been considering her.’ He frowned thoughtfully, swallowed and said. ‘Were there many other people she spent some time with the other night?’

  ‘Every man who was there.’

  He did that nodding, screwed-up eyes thing that most men do when they suspect something or someone they’d failed to meet might have proved intriguing in a fairly sexual way.

  ‘OK. Was there anybody there who obviously disliked her?’

  Honey was emphatic. ‘Every woman in the room. Arabella Neville didn’t care much for other women, and other women didn’t care much for her. Anyway, you don’t think a woman might have strangled her, do you?’

  He shook his head. ‘Strangling isn’t usually a girl thing. Poisoning has historically been the preferred method of the murdering woman-about-town. And then there’s stuffing a whole body up the chimney. That takes strength. No, I think we’re looking for a male perp, though it might have been useful to talk to the woman you heard. She did mention getting the job done by a professional. It could have been hot air, but on the other hand, she may have meant it.’

  ‘Have you received the guest list yet?’

  He nodded. ‘I have, but apparently not everyone who was there is on the list. There were gatecrashers; friends of friends and hangers on. Pity you didn’t recognise that voice. Are you sure she meant what she said?’

  ‘It sounded as though she did, but you can never tell, can you?’ She stopped eating as a thought occurred. ‘Just think. It might have happened there and then if I hadn’t flushed.’

  ‘A flush in time so to speak,’ said Doherty. He shook his head. ‘Women! Fancy having a set-to in the toilets.’

  ‘Men don’t do that sort of thing? Not even your streetwise alpha males?’

  He shook his head. ‘Too busy trying not to mess up their shoes.’

  Honey took a bite of sausage sandwich. ‘I wonder how many men she’d pissed off – besides her husband, that is?’

  ‘What makes you think she’d pissed him off?’

  ‘Are you kidding? Last night, every red-blooded male was over her like a rash. Or, to put it another way, she was the meat in the sandwich – surrounded by a whole loaf of bread, in fact. Men fall to pieces over women like that.’

  ‘Specify “women like that”,’ said Doherty, as he buttered another slice of toast then reached for the marmalade.

  ‘Well.’ said Honey. ‘Very girlish. Very pink, and very capable of massaging a man’s ego until one part of him is stiff and the rest turned to mush. And she enjoys doing it. And her husband wasn’t with her, so no doubt she’d done it before and he’d got sick of watching her do it. That’s my opinion – for what it’s worth.’

  Doherty thought about it. ‘Point taken. She was at the party, he wasn’t, and she gets a lot of male attention. I’m guessing he’s more of a stay at home type, not in TV like she was.’

  ‘You sound curious about her.’

  ‘Not me. Not my type,’ said Doherty shaking his head. The lid of one eye drooped as he slid a sidelong look in her direction. ‘But, hey, I like that bit about massaging a guy’s ego and stuff; if you want to try it out some time …’

  ‘I’m not that sort,’ she retorted with a toss of her head and a swipe at the bread crumbs clinging onto her chin.

  ‘You sound as though you think she deserved to get murdered.’

  Honey grimaced. ‘Anyone over forty caught wearing a pink Alice band is definitely in the fashion police danger zone. Good taste gone bad.’

  ‘You’re just jealous. I’m listening to your opinion that there’s an element of passion to this crime, but I’m not discounting the greed element. Adam Rolfe had financial problems and marriage problems, and now he’s gone missing. On the other hand, Arabella didn’t endear herself to the people she worked with, of that we’re pretty sure. And socially … well … I sense an element of feminine dislike for our TV celeb.’

  Honey elaborated on his analysis, confirming that on the whole, it was pretty accurate. Even without knowing the woman, Honey could feel her hackles rise and her talons come out for sharpening. Arabella Rolfe was the sort who got up the noses of women and down the pants of men – figuratively with regard to the former, and physically as regards the latter. How many pants she’d got down was open to conjecture; rumours abounded. How many female noses she’d got up was a natural phenomenon.

  ‘Did you hear about the personal trainer?’ she said, relishing the prospect of stirring up just a little dirt.

  Doherty had finished the toast and had poured himself a large black coffee. ‘Fill me in.’

  ‘Rumour has it that he was giving her more than a thorough fitness regime. She wanted a good body, and she got his as well as some improvement to her own.’

  Doherty reached across to flick at some crumbs that had adhered to her chin. ‘Is that jealousy I hear, or puritanical disapproval?’

  She immediately stopped eating. Food always took second place when Doherty touched her, and his voice was like velvet. It was her body’s natural response.

  ‘Neither,’ she retorted, accepting the fact that she was a pushover as far as Doherty was concerned. ‘It’s just gossip.’

  ‘And gossip by definition has to be juicy.’ His eyes glinted with merriment. He was enjoying this.

  ‘And where there’s some gossip, there has to be more,’ Honey pointed out.

  Despite the fact that Doherty was wearing his usual two-day stubble, not one single crumb had adhered to his bristles. She made a mental note to check her own chin hairs; p’raps they’d grown longer than his.

  ‘Hmm.’ Doherty stroked his jaw. There was a sound like heavy grade sandpaper rasping over wood.
Doherty’s stubble had a sound all of its own. It sounded harsh, but she knew differently, the bristles seeming to lay back and surrender when pressed against soft places. Doherty’s bristles had pressed against her soft places pretty frequently. Right now his knee was brushing against hers beneath the table. That felt pretty good too.

  ‘So the husband didn’t accompany his wife to the estate agents’ jamboree. You never saw him there.’

  Honey shook her head. ‘She didn’t seem to be with anybody and I think someone told me that he wasn’t there and that the reason was because they were moving house; which of course we know about. We’re talking here about Cobden Manor, the place I envisaged turning into a country house hotel.’

  ‘I take it you’ve changed your mind.’

  ‘Too right I have. Who’s going to want to stay in a place where murder happened?’

  Doherty shook his head. ‘Honey Driver. You’re a one-off and that’s for sure. For anyone else viewing an old house with a view to buying, the worst thing they might find is woodworm or rising damp. You found a dead body.’

  Honey grimaced and reassessed the situation from the business angle. ‘I suppose it could still work. How about murder weekends? They’re pretty popular.’

  On the whole Honey considered herself a pretty tough cookie, but then she’d never found a dead body before, not a murdered one anyway, and not someone she’d seen alive and quaffing cocktails just a few nights before. Her expression must have reflected what she was thinking.

  ‘Don’t dwell on it,’ said Doherty and hugged her. It was such a good hug that she swore she’d remember it until right up to bedtime – possibly beyond. Definitely beyond. ‘It isn’t healthy,’ he added. ‘Think of something else. Do something else today to take your mind off it.’

  She took his advice and began making a list. She was good at making lists; prided herself on them in fact. They helped her concentrate; helped her plan what needed to be done.

  Usually her lists were about staff rotas, food and beverage ordering, room, and snagging (such things as fluff balls under the bed and spiders in the corners). But this list was different. This list was about murder suspects.

  ‘OK. Husband, personal trainer, agent, and television rivals. That’s a pretty fair selection I think.’

  ‘Plus the husband’s business rivals. Was she having an affair with any of them? And what about the first wife? I suggest we pay her a visit tomorrow. She’s already been questioned, but it wouldn’t hurt to give it another pop.’

  Talking to Adam Rolfe’s first wife turned out to be a non-event. A neighbour came out to say that she was visiting somebody in Leicester.

  ‘I think it’s something to do with the son,’ said the neighbour. ‘He’s got a place at Leicester University.’

  It occurred to both of them that it might be a lie; that husband and first wife might be together.

  ‘The second marriage did turn bad,’ Honey pointed out.

  ‘But she was a woman scorned,’ said Doherty. ‘I hear tell that she packed all his clothes in the same suitcase as three pounds of tripe and half a dozen kippers.’

  ‘Not nice.’

  ‘Especially when she refused to let him collect it from the house. Instead she put it in a safety deposit facility and posted him the key. It was a week before he tracked its location. Pretty high by then.’

  She had expected Doherty to wind his way back to Bath, but instead he swept past Bath across the Severn Bridge.

  ‘Where are going?’

  ‘To see a man about a crime.’

  ‘Right,’ said Honey, burrowing herself down into her turned up coat collar. Yet again, Doherty was driving with the top of the car down. ‘Did he commit the crime?’

  ‘That’s what we’re going to find out.’

  Chapter Ten

  She guessed whoever they were about to meet had some bearing on the case. Judging by Doherty’s terse manner, she wasn’t going to be told who it was and what they knew until they were face to face.

  The little car flew up the A40, then on to side roads thick with trees and the smell of damp earth. Doherty turned into a minor road and then into a dirt track. A large sign said: ‘Forestry Commission – Forest of Dean.’

  At the end of the track the trees diminished and they were in a grassy clearing with parking spaces; a building used as a yacht club. A navigation light blinked above a concrete pier jutting out into the River Severn. The tide was out, but the seagulls didn’t seem to mind, bobbing about on what remained.

  Small boats were moored in a silky green slip of water protected from seepage by a pair of lock gates.

  A cool breeze blew across the water. Honey tucked her chin deeper into her coat collar and her hands into her pockets.

  ‘It’s pretty exposed here. Is this person we’re meeting already here, or do we have to hang around, in which case I wish I’d brought hot coffee – and a hot water bottle.’

  ‘Over there,’ said Doherty, pointing at a promontory in the river where a man sat fishing.

  The man was wearing a quilted jacket the colour of which could best be described as mud, though it might once have been moss green. Like the man wearing it, the jacket was faded.

  The man turned when Doherty’s shadow fell over him. His face was crumpled, a bit like an old leather football with all the air squashed out.

  ‘You’re the police officer that phoned me earlier.’ He sounded defensive and his expression was best described as surly.

  Doherty was cool. ‘That’s right. I wanted to talk to you. Your daughter gave me your mobile number. I tried phoning you, but couldn’t get through.’

  ‘Too bloody right you couldn’t. It’s in there,’ he said, nodding towards the river. ‘It’s down there now with the bloody fishes. And they don’t take phone calls. Bloody phone. I told her I didn’t want one. Told her I didn’t want to be contacted. You know that do you? Do you?’

  Doherty settled himself down on a large rectangular rock that looked as though at some time it might have stood upright. ‘I hear tale that following the folding of the development company you threatened both of them – her especially.’

  The man turned and glared. He was in his fifties, his squashed face flush with outdoor colour. She guessed his hair was probably thinning beneath the sludge green hat he was wearing.

  ‘Mr Albright, would I be right in saying that you lost money when Adam Rolfe and Associates folded?’

  The man emitted a low growl before beginning to speak. ‘The business was well funded. No doubt about it. It shouldn’t have gone under. But it did. The money that had been there wasn’t there any more, though God knows where it went. I didn’t get mine back, that’s for bloody sure. Left me barely enough to afford a decent rod. Put me off investing ever again. I want the simple life in future, Mr Policeman. Enough to live on and no worries. That suits me fine.’

  ‘Aren’t you curious as to where the money went?’

  Evan Albright blew nigh on a raspberry through his pursed lips.

  ‘No need to ask. There was plenty of cash in the bank until she came along – the TV star. He fell for her hook, line and sinker – then she sunk him, the silly sod. She went through his private cache and then went through the company money. That’s my theory and no one will convince me otherwise. No one!’

  Evan Albright’s eyes were hard with hatred, as though daring Doherty to try and convince him otherwise. Doherty had no intention of doing so.

  ‘I understand there were a number of other investors. I imagine they were pretty sore too, though they didn’t threaten bodily harm as you did,’ said Doherty. Although he appeared to be studying the still surface of the water, Honey knew he wasn’t looking for fish. He was listening, his mind full-on.

  ‘I can’t speak for them. I’m only an ordinary Joe who had a bit saved but no big corporation or old boy network behind me. Some did. I just lost my rag. So what?’

  ‘Arabella Rolfe has been found dead, murdered and her husband is missing. Wh
en was the last time you saw either of them, Mr Albright?’

  ‘Ages ago,’ he snapped, his attention now fixed on his float which had just disappeared beneath the water. ‘And good riddance.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I can’t remember …’

  He flipped the rod, played with the fish, dragging the float carefully towards the bank.

  Doherty grabbed the rod. Holding it firmly, he prevented Albright from reeling in his catch.

  ‘When?’ His voice was grim and if Albright had had any intention of putting up a fight, one look at Doherty’s face was enough to make him change his mind.

  ‘You’ll make me lose my fish!’ He sounded alarmed, though Honey deduced that was more to do with Doherty’s swift action than the thought of not frying fish for supper.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Fourteen months ago at the Theatre Royal. I was invited to a gala evening courtesy of Rolfe Investments. I saw both of them there and they were still alive.’

  ‘Were there other people there who could vouch for you?’

  Grim-faced, yearning for his rod and the fish he’d hooked, Evan Albright grunted a response, his annoyance all too obvious.

  ‘I’ve just bloody told you – it was a gala night. Everyone was there.’

  ‘Everyone who’d invested money with Rolfe Investments?’

  ‘Everybody!’

  Doherty let go the rod and stepped away.

  Albright stayed with his back to them as he reeled in his fish.

  Doherty thanked him. Albright made no response.

  ‘I can’t see that he would have killed her,’ Honey whispered as they walked away. ‘I mean, he’s old, and although fishing doesn’t float my boat, it seems to float his.’

  ‘Floating a boat. Very apt of you, Mrs Honey Driver. Evan Albright used to have a big house once. Not as big as Cobden Manor, but big enough. His daughter told me so.’

  ‘And?’

  He paused at a spot where a weeping willow flowed like water over the prow of a small wooden sailing boat. ‘Now he lives on that.’

  Chapter Eleven