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

by Jean G. Goodhind

  ‘I didn’t say you did.’

  ‘So what are you here for?’

  ‘There are rumours that you were giving Arabella more than physical fitness advice.’

  His arms fell to his sides. The biceps lost their bulge and the thick veins shrank to half their previous size. The confidence fell too.

  ‘Look, there was nothing in it. She came on to me, asked for a little extra-curricular activity, and I gave it to her. Hell, she wasn’t the first to offer it up on a plate. That’s the way it is with older women. Everyone knows that. They’ve done relationships. They know what they want.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Her skin was crawling. Was that really the way older women were apprised when they worked to keep their bodies in trim? ‘Older women just want sex; I never knew that.’

  ‘That’s the way it is,’ he said, failing to notice that she was far from impressed with his assessment. ‘Pure physical, sister. That’s all they want. Pure physical.’

  ‘You’re admitting to a sexual relationship?’

  ‘That isn’t what I said. I said she didn’t want a relationship. Neither did I. That’s not what I’m willing to do.’

  ‘Was she OK with that? Physical intercourse only?’

  ‘She had to be. Take it or leave it. I play a team game. No favouritism.’

  Honey folded her arms, her dislike for Victor Bromwell growing by the minute.

  ‘Did she demand your singular attention?’

  He hesitated, swallowed and then answered. ‘She liked to be the centre of attention.’

  ‘So she wanted you to herself.’

  ‘I told her no can do. She fretted a little.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she said, nodding thoughtfully. ‘So, tell me, can anyone verify where you were on the 11th at around eleven at night?’

  His mouth opened as he searched for an alibi. Honey thought it was almost childish the way people did that, harping back to childhood days when lying was first learned: ‘Sure, I’m sleeping over at my friend’s,’ when the truth was that you were off to an all-night party without your parents’ knowledge.

  Beads of sweat gleamed on his close-shaven skull. He looked like a TV competitor in gladiator games. Though more nervous.

  ‘Look. I was with someone, but hey. It was a special someone. Can we play it cool? My reputation is at stake here.’

  Honey raised her eyebrows insidiously. ‘The bad reputation, or are you insinuating you’ve got a good one.’

  He rolled both lips into his mouth. ‘Look. OK, I keep most of the women I date on a physical level, but not all. I do have a special someone, and she’s cultured. You dig?’

  It crossed Honey’s mind that if this special person was cultured, what the hell was she doing with Mr Muscle. On second thoughts, a hot dog was sometimes a welcome change from chicken chasseur.

  ‘OK. I’ll accept that. You were Mr Rough Diamond to her Lady Penelope. You can’t tell me who you were with, but can you tell me where you were?’

  ‘Hey, babe,’ he said, glancing nervously around him. ‘I just told you…’

  ‘Come on. Were you in a pub and would the barman remember you?’

  The veins on his upper arms pulsated. His blood pressure had to be heading for boiling point. He chewed his lips a bit and looked down at the floor. Then he said something.

  At first she didn’t quite catch what he said, he was saying it that quietly. She asked him to repeat it.

  ‘I was at the opera. Madame Butterfly. The guy behind the bar would remember me. I was that dehydrated, he poured me two glasses of tap water.’

  ‘And your girlfriend. What did she drink?’

  He swallowed and his eyelids flickered. ‘She didn’t drink. She was on the stage. She’s a singer.’

  OK. Now it was Honey’s turn to blink. This dude with the rippling biceps was dating an opera singer. Not only that, but he assured her that he’d sat through the whole thing from start to finish and had actually had tears in his eyes.

  ‘Pinkerton was a bastard. He should have come back for Butterfly. I felt real sorry for that chick.’

  Honey made a note to check with the barman, but could guess the answer. A dude like Victor had to have sat all the way through it to even hint at the plot. Apart from that the Welsh National Opera had only been playing for one night so he couldn’t be mistaken about which night it was. Still it wouldn’t hurt to contact the singer at some stage, just to make sure. It disappointed her to have to do it, but for now she was crossing Victor Bromwell off her list.

  On the way out she followed her reflection in the plate glass windows. Not too bad at all, she thought to herself. Navy blue suits you. Lindsey had bought the outfit on sale or return. The size was wrong and she’d been about to return it. Honey was in two minds whether to buy it herself. The truth was self-evident. She nodded at her reflection. It makes you look slimmer, and let’s face it, girl, a few pounds from the purse buying this little number sure beats pounding the treadmill!

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  There was no answer. Sean Fox was scared. He could no longer see the car they’d come in. It was dark, pitch dark; not a light in sight. He began to run. He didn’t know where. It didn’t matter, just so long as he made distance between himself and the man who had brought him here.

  The track beneath his bare feet was soft; the scents and sounds of the forest were all around. Wild garlic, pine trees, and the heavy smell of damp peat filled his head. An animal, probably a rabbit in the jaws of a fox, screamed before dying.

  As he ran he cursed his shameful behaviour. He’d got into a car, something he’d done many times before. Mostly they were strangers; straight men by day, something different when they were away from home, family, and everything ‘normal’. This time the driver looked familiar. He’d said, ‘Hello. Long time, no see.’

  They’d talked like old friends, neither actually pressing to enquire where they’d seen each other before. The journey here, to the forest, had passed in friendly anonymity. Once they’d turned off the narrow road and on to a forest track, everything had changed. The friendly face had turned threatening. The words that had been so warm had turned cold and hateful.

  At knife point, Sean had been ordered out of the car, told to leave his shoes, jacket, and warm sweater behind. And now he was running for his life.

  The ground that had been soft turned stony and scattered with the debris from windblown trees. Though his feet were cut, he continued to run. He was frightened, he was breathless and he couldn’t see where he was going. Like a drunken man, his legs were shaking and because he could not fix his gaze on anything, he veered from side to side.

  Suddenly he fell. There was water beneath him and his hands clutched at muddy earth and clumps of fern. His forehead connected with a stone and the darkness deepened.

  After a little old-fashioned research which consisted of picking up the telephone, Honey had acquired the address of Arabella’s agent. She normally frequented Covent Garden in the heart of London’s theatre district, also happened to have a cottage in the Wye Valley, and that was where she was at present.

  She had never meant to get Mary Jane involved in going to Wales, but somebody had vandalised her car. The old Citroen usually lived in a corner of the car park next to the bus station at the bottom of town. Unfortunately, building works were ongoing on the new shopping centre down there, so space was at a premium. Honey had parked the car in Forester Avenue instead. And that was the last she’d seen of it.

  ‘Stolen! Who would want to steal an ancient Citroen? I’d go for a Beemer myself,’ said Smudger.

  It occurred to Honey that if Smudger hadn’t chosen a career in catering, he would have made a pretty good car thief.

  ‘I’ll pass on the BMW. My old Citroen had a wheel at each corner. That suits me,’ Honey retorted hotly, miffed that the car was gone and even more miffed that Smudger was slating her car’s desirability, albeit to a car thief.

 
Mary Jane stipulated that if she was to drive her there, then she couldn’t possibly go unless she got to take a peek at Tintern Abbey. ‘I hear it’s haunted,’ she added.

  Honey rolled her eyes upwards as she tossed a mental coin on whether to go with Mary Jane, or stay and travel another day – when she had a car – when Doherty or Lindsey or somebody – anybody – had a day off and could take her.

  There was no time. That was all there was to it. Arabella’s ex-agent had the reputation of being scary, volatile and hard to get hold of. With the help of someone who worked for the agency and was a friend of a friend of a friend of her mothers, she’d managed to pin her down. There was nothing for it but to go, go, go!

  Once she’d sorted out the transport situation, she phoned Doherty to let him know what she was doing.

  ‘I’m going to tell her that I’ve written a book that’s been optioned by Miramax and she’s been recommended to me as the right person to sell it for me. And my car’s been stolen. Mary Jane has offered to take me there.’

  ‘Let me know what you find out. Drive safely. By the way, do you really want your car back?’

  This was so exasperating. Was she the only person to place more value on getting from A to B than sitting in a spanking new car?

  ‘We all get stuck in the same traffic jams, no matter how great our wheels,’ she said to him.

  ‘Your funeral. Ooops. Sorry. Figure of speech. Have a great time. It’s great scenery over there. You could take a lunchbox with you.’

  At mention of a lunchbox, she thought of the personal trainer’s bulging bits. ‘By the way, Victor Bromwell has an alibi. He was at the opera.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. The lead soprano was having him for supper.’

  If she discounted the fact that Mary Jane’s driving made her sick, she had to admit that luck was definitely riding with her. She’d phoned Faith Page via her secretary and was told she was at the cottage and would be very pleased to see her.

  ‘So this woman has something to do with programmes about haunted houses and all things paranormal,’ said Mary Jane with great enthusiasm. ‘Do you think she could get me on the show? I mean, I am a natural psychic. The spirits speak to me regularly and I’m mightily tuned into the earth vibes. Do you know that Wales and England are criss-crossed with ley lines? Especially Wales. It’s a very haunted, spiritual land.’

  ‘I thought it was the Land of Song,’ said Honey. ‘Oh, and coal mines. It used to have a lot of coal mines.’

  ‘Those too, but first and foremost it’s full of spirits.’

  Honey had armed herself with a notebook, a pen and a folder of blank paper so that she really looked the part of an about-to-be-famous scriptwriter.

  The day had started fine, but the sky clouded and the rain began to fall the moment she hit the A466. There was a saying that it was always raining in Wales, but she reckoned that the luck would stay with her and it would brighten up.

  Just as they swooped down into the valley the rain stopped and a patch of blue followed her along the road.

  ‘That was lucky,’ said Mary Jane, and Honey wondered whether she’d been reading her thoughts.

  The abbey, a long-standing ruin thanks to Henry VIII, loomed large and imposing on their right-hand side.

  The cottage directions she’d received took her to the far end of the village, a left-hand turning and a road that eventually led into the forest.

  Narrow and lacking any sign of pavement or parking, there was just enough room for parking Mary Jane’s car. Mary Jane had shipped the pale pink Cadillac from California. Like her, it was getting on in years, but still capable, though a trifle thirsty on the fuel front. With a bit of shunting backwards and forwards, enough room was left for other road users to pass by.

  She told Mary Jane to stay put.

  ‘Sure. I’ll commune with the spirits of the woods. It should be interesting.’

  Mary Jane closed her eyes and did that ‘omm’ thing that seems to be a prerequisite for communing with spirits.

  The cottage looked pleasant enough, though smallish and built of dull grey stones. Summer flowers exploded with colour from a series of window boxes and the leaves of a horse chestnut rustled from across the road.

  She was half in, half out of the car when her phone rang.

  ‘Where are you?’

  No introduction. No ‘how are you today’. Casper prided himself on having a uniquely recognisable voice – a touch of the Noel Coward who he tried hard to emulate even down to an ebony cigarette holder. The cigarette was unlit. Casper didn’t smoke.

  ‘I’m in Wales.’

  ‘Wales? My dear girl, do you have relatives there?’

  ‘I’m on the case of Arabella Rolfe – stage name Neville, the woman I found very dead and very stuffed up a chimney. She used to be a TV presenter.’

  ‘I know that. And a would-be singer, her main failing being that she acted like a diva even before she’d actually become one. And she couldn’t sing. But why Wales?’

  Honey explained about Arabella’s agent having a country cottage in Tintern.

  ‘It saves me going to London to question her. I’m incognito of course. Arabella’s husband is prime suspect. He hasn’t helped his situation by doing a runner. I thought she might know where he is.’

  She didn’t mention John Rees being a friend of Adam’s and her sneaking suspicion that John might be involved.

  ‘I say again, my dear, what are you doing in Wales banging at this other person’s door?’

  Honey cleared her throat. ‘Hmmm. I thought her agent might be able to shed some light on her character. She was a very pink person and rather aloof. I wanted to know whether her actual character matched her true persona.’

  ‘You met her?’

  ‘Yes. At the Roman Baths, courtesy of the Federation of Local Estate Agents. You must have seen her too – dressed in pink and white and wearing an Alice band.’

  ‘Ah yes! I do recall such a creature. Granny trying to be girly.’

  Honey thought Casper’s take on Arabella was a bit harsh, and she said so. ‘She’s a stepmother, not a granny.’

  ‘Do carry on with your little shindig in Wales, but do hurry back before you develop a chip on your shoulder. They have a lot of them in Wales.’

  ‘You hate Wales that much?’

  ‘Only since the mines closed and those grubby, gruff men singing in gorgeous choirs were no more. There’s still the rugby players of course; very butch though not very dirty.’

  Faith Page filled the doorway, her body like a cloth-wrapped pudding of billowing black. A Hampstead Bazaar label protruded from the neckline.

  After initial introductions, Faith Page invited her in.

  The interior of the cottage was unexpected. Like the TARDIS in Doctor Who, it really was far larger inside than out, though it wasn’t filled with gimmicky electronics. Far from it. A large tapestry showing a hunting scene dominated one wall. Two brass table lamps, lit even at this time of day, sat on an oak coffer in front of the tapestry.

  Faith led her through to a very bright conservatory at the rear of the house.

  ‘Do you take tea?’ asked Faith after inviting her to sit down on an antique chair.

  Honey said that she’d love a cup.

  ‘Great.’

  Faith Page pushed a tea tray in her direction with a pudgy hand and rings on all fingers.

  ‘I’ve just made it. Help yourself.’

  A quick survey of the tea tray revealed only one cup and saucer.

  ‘Aren’t you having one?’ Honey asked.

  Faith reached for a tall tumbler, a green glass bottle and a plastic bottle of tonic water.

  ‘Gin,’ said Faith. ‘I don’t like tea. I only drink gin.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Honey.

  After a few years in the hotel business, assessing what and why people did things became second nature. She had Faith Page sussed; Faith’s escape to the country was to unwind away from London, clients,
and anyone wanting a slice of her time. The gin was her solace and the reason an appointment had been so easy to get. Faith and her bottle of gin were bosom buddies.

  ‘So!’ said Faith, her snub nose lifted high, and her small, deep set eyes as piercing as a surgeons’ scalpel. ‘You were recommended to me. Anyone I know?’

  ‘Casper St John Gervais!’

  It was the first name to fall into her brain and from there fell easily onto her tongue. Casper had such an impressive name.

  Faith paused as though searching her memory banks. Honey hoped and prayed the gin had befuddled her recollections of names and events.

  ‘I believe you met at a Noel Coward event,’ Honey said breezily. ‘Casper is such a sucker for Noel Coward. His greatest fan I should say.’

  Faith’s soft jowls relaxed as the suggested recollection was considered and accepted.

  ‘Ah yes. Noel Coward.’

  Of course, Noel Coward. Honey congratulated herself on using Casper’s name then linking it to the noble Noel. Faith was taking her at face value.

  ‘He said you impressed him greatly when you met and suggested you were the best agent I could possibly approach with my project. In fact, he added that nobody else would do,’ said Honey, the fanciful explanation pouring like treacle from her tongue.

  Already of generous proportions, Faith digested the flattery and swelled as though she’d eaten it whole.

  ‘Ah!’ she exclaimed, throwing back her head, her chest heaving with the enormity of it all. ‘A man who knows what he’s talking about. How refreshing. Most men talk out of their rear end. They certainly think below the waistline.’ She pulled a face and took a swig of gin before continuing. The self-promotion came thick and fast.

  ‘Do you know that I’m one of the top five agents in this country,’ she slurred, waving her glass around. ‘If you write me a bestseller, an excellent script, or can act your ass off in front of the right producer, then I can make you rich. Give me the right material, leave me to promote you or your work, and you’ll go straight to the top. Just don’t bother me while I’m doing it. I don’t like being bothered. I’ve got better things to do.’