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

by Jean G. Goodhind

She stood there grinning stupidly, waiting for John to ask if she wanted a coffee, a chair or even a cuddle in some dark corner.

  His smile was forced. ‘Of course not. Whatever made you think that?

  ‘Did he buy anything?’

  ‘From me? No,’ said John, his smile more relaxed now as he shook his head. ‘He’s not interested in books.’

  ‘Nor maps?’

  ‘Sometimes.

  ‘Are you going to tell me about this man, or is it some big secret?’

  Once she’d said it, she remained silent, arms folded, eyes fixed on his face, noticing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the wisps of grey hair on his upper lip quivering as though he were about to say something but hadn’t yet decided what.

  He finally gave in. ‘Gabriel Forbes. He owns an art gallery.’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know him. What was it you wanted to see me about?’

  It was only a split second, but she knew he’d been taken off guard.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing. Just wondered whether you were still going to do the move out of town.’

  ‘Are you kidding? Haven’t you heard about Arabella Rolfe? Her of the pink Alice band and West End fashion? Strangled and stuffed up the chimney of her own house. Well, what used to be her house. Apparently the bank foreclosed.’

  ‘Yes. I did. So that’s that then. You’re not buying the house. That’s all I wanted to know.’

  She didn’t believe him. Perhaps it was the way he half turned away as he spoke. Everyday John looked you straight in the eye. What had happened here?

  He made a show at being busy, pretending to put some books in order. He’d never ever done that before when she was in the shop.

  ‘Are you sure there was nothing you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘No, I phoned you on a whim. I thought I’d have time for a coffee with you, but it so happens I’m now rather busy.’

  The fiddling with books continued. It was getting downright irritating. Should she hang around or be direct? Or should she just throw in the towel, at least for now. She decided on the latter option.

  ‘You knew Adam Rolfe quite well didn’t you?’

  He paused, two books in his right hand, his left hand covering them as though wanting to hide the titles.

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘You told me so at the Roman Baths event. Arabella was there, but her husband wasn’t. You hinted they’d probably had a row, so on that score I guess you knew both of them pretty well. You said Adam used to collect maps.’

  His face fell and he looked embarrassed about being found out.

  ‘So I did.’

  Arabella had been there. John had been there. Arabella had been looking at John. This was one of those occasions when she couldn’t help putting one and one together and … well … making two.

  The question had to be asked. But she couldn’t do it.

  ‘She was dressed to the nines when they found her. Right down to her underwear. They were the sort of clothes a woman wears when she’s meeting a lover.’

  ‘Not me,’ said John. ‘So don’t ask me that. Certainly not me. Adam was … is … my friend. I wouldn’t do that.’

  She immediately regretted what she’d said. John wasn’t the sort to have illicit affairs.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I should know better.’

  John put down the books and heaved a huge sigh. ‘I suppose you have to.’

  ‘But she did have a lover?’

  He nodded. ‘Arabella always had a lover, though who the latest one was I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘Did you know she was married before she met Adam?’

  He frowned. ‘It was never mentioned.’

  ‘There’s a rumour she had children.’

  He stared at her. ‘Adam never mentioned it. Is it a rumour or is there some truth in that?’

  Honey shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Lindsey did a search of the name Dwyer. That was the name of the husband. We’re also waiting to hear back from the police in London about her father, Patrick Lionel Casey.’

  ‘Are the rumours relevant to her being killed?’

  ‘Possibly. The police are desperate to ask Mr Rolfe about his wife’s death, but he’s disappeared.’

  Suddenly he was stacking books again, apparently putting them in some sort of order, though too quickly to be accurate.

  ‘Look, Honey. You’ll have to excuse me. I really am behind schedule. We’ll catch up next week sometime. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  It was hard to agree, but agree she did. John Rees was agitated about something, but wasn’t letting on what it was.

  Adam Rolfe is a friend of his. He’s worried about him. She’d waved at him. ‘OK. If you change your mind about whatever it was, feel free to get in touch.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Oh well. Can’t stop.’

  He waved a hand, one side of his mouth curving upwards into a half smile. ‘See you.’

  Once outside she took a deep breath. John was being evasive and she’d promised herself that if he continued to be that way, she’d switch to plan B. If he wasn’t going to be direct with her, then she wouldn’t be direct with him. She’d go undercover. She’d discover what he was up to.

  The thought of going undercover was pretty exciting. In a sudden need of external advice, she thought about phoning Doherty but stopped herself. There he was, lying supine and all alone in bed, and in receipt of a phone call regarding John Rees. She’d have to explain too much and had no wish to. Being close to John in any respect might make Doherty jealous.

  Visiting John’s book shop had only ever been for pleasure and he’d been pleased to see her. Just now he’d been edgy as though waiting for an axe to fall – or more likely a question to be asked. He’d admitted to her that Adam Rolfe was a friend of his. That night at the Roman Baths, Arabella had waved and smiled at him.

  A horrifying thought struck her: did John have anything to do with her death?

  On reaching the end of the alley she glanced back at the shop. One part of her wanted to tell the police (as in Steve Doherty) that she suspected he knew more than he was letting on. The other half of her refused to believe he could possibly have a criminal bone in his well-toned, highly desirable body.

  Stop that! She wasn’t sure whether it was the voice of her conscience or Doherty sending her telepathic messages. Whatever, she couldn’t bring herself to shop such a dear friend to the police. Not until she was sure. So she had to make sure.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The arched framework and brass sill of the window had been the height of shop-front fashion during the reign of Queen Victoria. Before that the windows had been bow-fronted and made up of small panes of perfect and not so perfect glass. The latter were known as Bullseye glass, mutated at the firing stage by a ripple effect.

  John eyed the people jostling in the alley, squashed together where the alley was narrowest, some stumbling over the crumpled flagstones that were almost as old as the buildings. Overhead a mere sliver of summer sky showed between the buildings.

  When viewed through the dimpled glass the faces of those in the crowd were distorted into odd shapes, their features elongated or hopelessly spherical.

  John came away from the window, the familiar contents of the shop soothing his jangled nerves.

  Two gentlemen from Rotterdam had come in immediately following Honey’s exit. They had spent over an hour perusing the collection of atlases for sale and, uncharacteristically, he’d left them to it.

  The way they had pored over his stock, heads together, shoulders hunched, had reminded him of a painting by an Old Dutch master, of gentlemen wearing black hose and doublets.

  Leather-bound books, their titles etched in gold on padded spines, gleamed from the shelves to the right of the door. To the left hefty atlases lay on a lectern arrangement running the full length of the wall. Jostling for space above the atlases hung a series of maps in ebony frames.

  John Rees exuded a passion for the items he sold an
d had an aversion to selling his stock to someone not sharing his own passion. On the other hand he was honest about his stock, open should the authenticity of an item be somewhat questionable.

  The bookshop was his life. He never tired of the smell of dusty books and old ink. Seeing as he had no other love in his life – not one who was currently available – his affection stayed focused on his books.

  Narrowing his eyes, he turned his gaze away from the world outside and on to a particularly lovely eighteenth-century atlas. Not that he was really taking in the fine detail or the overly flowery language. He was thinking of Honey Driver.

  He’d felt bad being so offhand with her, his own fault for considering betraying his secret. He’d almost done it too, but stopped before things had gone too far. He’d never been so offhand with her before and all because he’d stepped out of line to help an old friend.

  Eventually the two gentlemen from Rotterdam bought a number of ancient maps plus an excellent atlas from the early nineteenth century.

  On the dot of six o’clock he shut and locked the door, slid between the shelves to the back of the shop, picked up the phone and dialled a number. The call was answered almost immediately.

  ‘Look. I want nothing to do with this. If I had known what you were up to …’

  The voice on the other end offered him the world – if only he would do what was asked of him.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No!’

  He put the phone down and closed his eyes. He could feel the sweat congealing on his forehead, soaking into his hair. Honey must have guessed that something was up. He’d seen the look on her face, and no wonder. He’d not greeted her like he usually did. He hadn’t offered her coffee. He hadn’t communicated with the usual spark that seemed to flash between them. In short, he hadn’t been himself and she’d cottoned on. He was sure of that.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Being sneaky wasn’t nice. Neither was it part of her nature, but Honey Driver had made her mind up. She was going to be sneaky. In fact she was going to be super-sneaky, like a Cold War spy, or one of her mother’s old friends who sneaked into neighbouring gardens and allotments to dig up spuds or slice off the head of a cauliflower. She’d never been caught. That’s the kind of sneaky Honey wanted to be.

  There was one major reason for doing this; John Rees was acting suspiciously and out of character. He was admitting nothing. Neither was she come to that, at least, not to herself. She liked him. That was the plain fact. He wasn’t telling her what the problem was, so she felt obliged to find out for herself. To do that, she had to be sneaky. Kind of undercover cop. If he wasn’t going to help himself out of the hole, then she had to do it for him.

  At twenty-five past five, she slipped into the charity shop on the corner of George Street and Gay Street. Scurrying swiftly between rails of limp cotton dresses, knitwear, and outsize trousers, she found a box of scarves nestling beneath a shelf of affordable accessories. Following a quick rummage she sourced a silk headscarf from the box and a pair of cheap sunglasses from the shelf of accessories.

  After paying for her purchases she put both on straight away explaining to the elderly assistant that the silk cooled her head and the sunglasses eased her aching eyes.

  ‘It’s been a warm day.’

  The assistant craned her neck like an egret wondering about the best time to leave the nest. The weather outside didn’t look that good. It wasn’t.

  Honey rushed out looking like a refugee from Badminton Horse Trials. A quick glance at her reflection in the gleaming window confirmed that she really didn’t look herself. Headscarves sporting hunting scenes were famously worn by the royal family and owlish sunglasses by the late Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis. She didn’t look like either. Best of all, she didn’t look like herself.

  Disguise complete, she hurried along George Street, down into Milsom Street and beyond, finally taking a left turn into the narrow alley where John Rees’s bookshop was located.

  The two last customers of the day emerged first, one clasping a large book beneath his arm, the other something equally large wrapped up in brown paper. Purchased books came out in a dark green carrier bag displaying the shop’s emblem – J R Books – in gold. She hazarded a guess that the brown paper parcel contained a map – perhaps two.

  Just in case John should spot her, she turned her back on the bookshop. She had a nice shiny shop window in front of her, ideal for reflecting the scene across the road. Undercover cops did things like this all the time. She’d seen it on TV. The trick was to concentrate on the reflection of the bookshop door. The difficulty lay in ignoring the display of chocolate fudge, rum fudge, toffee and Cornish cream fudge, on and on, more mouth-watering favourites. Creamy smells filled her head, made her stomach rumble and her mouth water. There was nothing easy about being sneaky.

  John finally came out, locked the door and turned instantly away heading in the direction of Stall Street.

  Honey was confident that she knew all there was to know about working undercover. I mean, she thought to herself, how difficult can it be? Those guys on TV do it all the time. She’d watched and learned. That was all there was to it.

  First off she counted to ten, took a deep breath then set off in pursuit. The main thing she’d learned from those TV cops was that she had to be quick on her feet. Nipping into a shop doorway or pretending to read a newspaper or study a bus timetable pinned to a lamppost was part of the game. If he should chance to glance over his shoulder, she had to act – and fast!

  She analysed what might go through his mind if he did spot her. Would she be instantly recognised? A glance in yet another shop window confirmed it as unlikely. She was just a woman in a headscarf, if he saw her at all. Women in headscarves are nondescript, she decided, and promised herself never to wear one out of choice. They looked middle-aged. They looked unattractive.

  The likely conclusions as to why he would fail to recognise her came fast and furious. She only hoped she was right.

  There was, of course, an element of guilt in doing this. Despite her suspicions, she had a genuine affection for John Rees. He was the sort of man a woman could openly regard as her closest confidante. OK, yes, he had lover potential written all over him, and in all honesty she couldn’t deny that, if the occasion was right, she might very well be tempted. The thing was that if he ever discovered she was following him all promise between them would fly out of the window. She’d never figure in any of his sexual fantasies again – not that she knew for sure that she did, but hell, John sometimes figured in hers.

  This isn’t a mean move, she told herself. You sense that John is holding something back and a pound to a penny it has something to do with Adam Rolfe. He’s being secretive. Even deceitful.

  She shoved the thought that she was being equally secretive and deceitful to the back of her mind. She was Honey Driver, Crime Liaison Officer and superior spook – or were spooks spies? No matter. She could be whatever she wanted to be: Honey Driver, private investigator.

  His confident stride took him out of the alley and into the melting melee of shoppers, tourists and people on their way home from work.

  John lived in a flat just around the corner from Quiet Street and behind the premises of a magazine publishing company. She supposed that was where he was heading, though it wasn’t a dead cert.

  Being in disguise was amazingly reassuring. The warmth of the day was gone and her jacket was linen and a little tight around the bust. All the same the two front edges met comfortably enough and kept her warm.

  It suddenly occurred to her that if he went straight home she’d have to ring the bell and invite herself in. She practised what she should say, decided that wasn’t the only option. The police would do a stakeout and she could do the same.

  Easy!

  Cobbles were breaking through a thin layer of tarmac in the narrow road where John Rees lived.

  She dived into the doorway of the Canary Tea Rooms immediately opposite John’s front door while he fish
ed for the right key and opened the door.

  The Canary Tea Rooms were closed and gloomy within but window glass was a wonderful thing. The old building that housed John’s apartment and especially his front door were clearly reflected. Now all she had to do was wait for him to come out – if he came out. She hoped he did. She didn’t fancy an overnight stakeout.

  The shadow of a passing pedestrian paused behind her. Had she been discovered? Had John spotted her, sneaked out through a secret entrance, and crept up behind her.

  Her blood raced. She saw the man’s features. It wasn’t John. It wasn’t anyone she knew.

  The man was wearing a khaki sweater, had a thin face, a receding hairline, and a big nose.

  ‘Bit early love, but I’m game if you are. How much you charging?’

  Turning round was out of the question just in case John chose that moment to glance out of a window.

  ‘Get lost or you’re nicked,’ she spat over her shoulder.

  ‘You what?’

  He sounded drunk. She had to get rid of him. Mindful that John’s window overlooked the street, she only partially turned.

  ‘Get lost or I’ll take you down the station and charge you with kerb crawling.’

  ‘A copper? You a copper? You don’t look like a copper. You got too big an ass to be a copper.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, riled beyond belief. ‘I’m nicking you.’ She brought a pen and pad from her pocket – her shopping list pad. ‘Name and address. I take it you’re married? What would your wife think of you?’

  The verbal assault had the effect of making him walk backwards.

  ‘Pig bitch!’

  ‘A female pig is called a sow, you cretin!’

  She was angry enough to shout, but kept the volume down. It came out as a hiss. Nasty but not loud. It had the desired effect. Her would-be punter for sexual services sloped off. Honey slunk further into the depths of the doorway.

  Although it was only just past six o’clock, her stomach began to rumble. The sugary scent of the fudge shop had followed her from the alley. Being a very clingy form of sugar, fudge was very capable of clinging inside the nostrils. And it did. Vanilla, Cornish cream, chocolate, caramel, and almond; it was all there whirling in an afterhours miasma through the twisting alleyways.